


A Fillorian Knight's Tale

by Rubick



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001), The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Awkward Flirting, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Princess Eliot (Sort of), Quentin is a Knight, Sir Quentin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24226216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/pseuds/Rubick
Summary: The knight stood up straighter and nodded. “Yes! I was trained growing up, you know, to be a knight. In magic. And things.”“And things? Where are you from?”“Gelderland. A small township. Brilliant but far… far away.”“Is this your first tournament?” Eliot asked.“Yes. No! No. It’s not, but it is my first one HERE. In Rouen.” At Eliot’s bewildered expression, the knight continued. “I’m sorry, you’re just… you’re royalty, yes? I’ve never really spoken to any members of the royal families before, and you have really nice eyes and you’re so tall and I’m… going to stop talking now.”Eliot had to try hard to suppress the grin from forming on his face. Even though what the knight was saying didn’t really make sense (you had to speak to someone in royalty to even become a knight), that didn’t stop the flirtatious tone flowing from his lips.  “Please don’t stop. I would hear you speak if it cost me my ears.”The man’s face had been tinged pink, but at Eliot’s words, they blossomed into full scarlet.Again, just unable to contain himself, Eliot continued “Are you sure you’re a knight? I don't think I've ever met one that blushed before.”The Magicians/A Knight's Tale AU.
Relationships: Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater & Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater & Josh Hoberman, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater & Kady Orloff-Diaz, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 31
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to check out my story. To set the scene:
> 
> This is a re-telling of the film “A Knight’s Tale,” with a Magicians twist. The vast majority of dialogue is from the movie, with some changes to suit our characters and setting. You’ll also notice some added scenes to give necessary background and character info. The rating is also a bit higher than the movie.
> 
> This is set in Fillory, but not really the Fillory we know. It is more like medieval Earth times, with some magic. The ruling nobility does follow a structure similar to Medieval times - so no “Children of Earth” here. The geography/landscape is changed/made up to suit the narrative. Many things we are familiar with from the Magicians exist, but are changed for the story.
> 
> And many apologies, but I did not find a way to fit Penny in the story in a meaningful way that made me happy. Hopefully there will be a role for him in a future tale ...

In the sovereign state of Fillory, a sport arose. 

Embraced by noble and peasant fans alike, 

though only noble knights could complete. 

The sport was jousting.

For one of these knights, an over-the-hill former champion, 

it was the end. 

But for his peasant squire Quentin, it was merely the beginning.

  
  


Quentin and Julia gazed down at Sir Mayakovsky, who was splayed against a nearby tree trunk. The greenery and life of the nearby forest made for a stark backdrop to the sight in front of them - Sir Mayakovsky was unmoving, with no response to their pleas for him to get up and make his way back to the lists. There was also the most horrible smell upon the air.

With a shared glance to Quentin, Julia hitched up her skirt and stepped closer to the knight. Grimacing as the stench hit her in full force, she reached out and pressed two fingers against his neck. Quentin crossed his arms and frowned - the joust had been going well until the last pass. Sir Mayakovsky had taken a hard blow, but was cognizant (and somewhat sober) enough to leave the arena and stumble down the path, eventually stumbling against this tree to “rest for a few moments.” His squires had tried to get him to the healing tent, but his refrain of “fuck off you useless cunts” had sent them away. Normally the three rounds passed without so much downtime between, but both knights had suffered an injury in the last pass and were granted a short respite. 

Kady bounded up to the pair, a rare smile on her pretty face. Today had been going quite well indeed, but it was starting to look like that good fortune had run out. “Three scores to none after two lances! All Sir Mayakovsky needs to do is stay on his horse, and we’ve won!” 

A frown creasing her lovely face, Julia looked up. “Dead,” she stated, her arm falling against her side.

“What?” Quentin asked, his heart dropping. 

Kady turned sharply to Julia, her face falling. “What?? What the fuck do you mean, dead?”

Julia stepped away from the fresh body, coming to stand alongside Quentin and Kady. “The spark of his life is smothered in shit. His spirit is gone but his stench remains. Does that answer your question?”

“No no no no,” Kady sputtered, taking hurried steps to the dead knight. “He’s asleep! Wake him now!” Her face pinched - “We’re minutes from victory! I haven’t eaten in three days!”

“None of us have, Kady!” Quentin exclaimed, his frustration getting the better of him. While Sir Mayakovsky was the most talented knight he had supported (not that there was much competition), he made no qualms about making sure his belly was full (of both food and wine) before providing for his squires. No tears would be shed over his untimely death. But to be so close to a hot meal to have it taken away - Quentin’s mind raced as his empty stomach rumbled almost painfully.

“We need to find a priest.” Julia turned to start the trudge back towards the fairgrounds. 

“No! He’s NOT dead! There must be some healing spell or something we can try ...” Kady wailed. “Come on. Wake up!” Kady nudged the body, and rapped quickly on it’s head. With no response, she nudged harder, nearly knocking over the corpse from it’s seated position against the small tree. Moving her hands, she began one of the few healing tuts they had learned during their years together. The desperation in her actions were a stark contrast to the sereneness of the scene around them - a few birds chirped above in nearby trees, while a little stream babbled nearby. “You asshole! Wake the fuck up!”

Quentin turned away from her tantrum. His eyes widened a bit as he saw a tournament official approach, a severe look upon his face. “Jules,” Quentin breathed, grabbing her arm. They both turned to fully face the official as he rode up on horseback.

“Squire, Sir Mayakovsky must report at once or forfeit the match,” he stated, looking expectantly down at the pair. 

Julia opened her mouth to respond. Quentin grabbed her arm, pulling her closer to him. Behind them, Kady’s words carried on the air. “I haven’t eaten in THREE DAYS! WHAT DID YOU EAT??”

“He’s on his way!” Quentin blurted. The official, looking no friendlier, peered down at them, then attempted to look beyond, at Kady. Quentin held Julia near, keeping his eyes on the official and smiling blandly. The man gave them one last withering look, turned his horse, and rode off.

“I will ride in his place,” Quentin said softly. As this idea took shape in his mind, Quentin could feel adrenaline coursing through his body. “Strip his armor!” Quentin stated, spinning towards Kady, who was still giving Sir Mayakovsky a piece of her mind. “I will ride in his place.”

“Q, what the fuck?” Julia breathed, looking at Quentin as if he’d gone insane.

“Help me, please” Quentin pleaded to Kady, who was looking down at Quentin in confusion as he started to remove Sir Mayakovsky’s helmet.

“What is your name, Quentin?” Julia asked, her frustration evident as she placed her hands on her hips.

“I’m asking you, Quentin Coldwater, to answer me with your name.”

Quentin ignored her, continuing to strip the fallen knight of his armor. It would be a bit large on him, but would suffice. 

“It’s not Sir Quentin. It’s not Count or Duke or Earl Quentin. It’s most certainly not High King Quentin. You have to be of noble birth to compete!”

“Petty details” Quentin replied, struggling to get the armor off completely. The chest plate had seen better days, but it still had many bouts left in it. 

Julia looked down at Quentin and Kady, her mouth moving slightly as the possibilities flitted through her mind. She swallowed, and made a decision. “If the nobles find out, we’re dead,” Julia said, stepping forward to help Quentin into the armor.

“Then we better pray they don’t,” Quentin replied, his voice surprisingly solid given the doubts flickering through his thoughts. As they snapped the armor into place, Quentin felt the heavy weight of it settle onto his body. He relished it. How much he had wanted and yearned for this. To wear such armor, compete in tournaments - magical and physical events alike. While these weren’t the circumstances he dreamed of, he would take what little he could get.

This was a gamble, a Hail Mary to be certain, but for once, something inside him wouldn’t focus on the negative. This was going to work. It had to. They were too starved for it not to.

* * *

The day was bright and clear, a glorious blue sky above them and a slight breeze in the air. Quentin tried not to focus on the sweat dripping down his skin as Kady and Julia led Saxon, Sir Mayakov—his—horse, to the arena. His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest as he patted down his armor, his body bouncing with each step closer to what could be his first and last joust.

“What the fuck am I doing,” he muttered underneath his breath. What was he thinking? _I most certainly can NOT do this, I’ve only jousted with Sir Mayakovsky in practice only, I’ve never actually hit him where had that burst of confidence even come from and I could get myself and my friends killed literally in the next --_

“Visor!” Julia yelled up at him, picking up her pace so they wouldn’t be any later than they already were. Quentin shoved the visor down, covering his face. His vision was now limited to what he could see through the small slit in the face shield. 

As the jousting area loomed closer, so did the crowds that lined each side. How could he forget about the crowds? The many witnesses to his inevitable fuck-up (and subsequent stay in the stocks, or worse, hung from the gallows). 

Julia and Kady jogged into the arena alongside Saxon, as the crowd grew louder. Quentin felt the moment they passed through the wards, which would prevent any magic from taking place within their bounds. He heard Sir Mayakovsky’s name being called enthusiastically, and as he turned his head to the side, he could see spectators waving his way. 

The official that came to retrieve them earlier stood in the middle of the arena, directly in front of the spectator boxes housing members of the local royal family. After the company completed their trumpet call announcing the start of the round, he bellowed out “The score stands at three lances to none in favor of Sir Mayakovsky.” Turning his head to the opposite side of the arena, he exclaimed “Lord Philip of Aragon. Stand ye ready?”

Lord Philip lifted his lance high, signaling his readiness.

The official nodded, and turned towards Quentin. “Sir Mayakovsky? Stand ye ready?”

Taking a deep breath, Quentin lifted the lance in his direction.

“Ready?” Kady asked, glancing up at Quentin. 

“Yes,” Quentin tersley replied. “I have tilted against Sir Mayakovsky many times.” 

“In practice, as his target,” Kady responded, turning her gaze back to the arena. “You were never allowed to actually strike him.”

“I’ll be fine,” Quentin said, attempting to quell the panic swelling in his chest. He looked directly down the arena, focusing on Lord Philip. He thought of when he was a child, watching the matches from between the knees of other peasants. How he had wanted so much to be on his own horse, with his own squires, as a knight. A symbol of chivalry and honor. Now here he was - not exactly as he wanted, but as close as he’ll ever get. 

“You can do this, Quentin,” Julia said, giving a quick glance up at him before looking back to the arena. “Focus on the landscape. Stay on the horse. He needs three points to beat you, so a broken lance won’t do it. He has to knock you off the horse.”

“I know how to score, Julia,” Quentin spit at her, his vehemence surprising himself.

Julia looked back at him again. “I’m just trying to help. Quit being a brat.”

“I’m sorry,” Quentin replied quickly. “It’s just...I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.”

“I know,” Julia replied softly. Quentin felt a swell of affection for her. They had been by each other’s side for so long - from the moment when his father delivered him for service some...twelve years prior.

Kady looked up at Quentin. “You’ve waited your whole life for Sir Mayakovsky to shit himself to death?”

Quentin refocused to the track in front of him. A low wooden bar ran the length of the arena. He would ride to one side, Lord Philip to the other. They would each attempt to knock the other off the horse using their lance. A great deal of strength was needed to accurately aim and deliver a blow, while also taking (or blocking) whatever your opponent may deal. Add to it the shortness of vision offered by the armor, and the fact that no magic was allowed in this event, being a champion at the joust took a lot of strength, experience, knowledge and balls. Quentin had no qualms about his strength and knowledge - he worked his body daily in his duties, and spent many a night feeding his mind. The other requirements-well he could fake it for this one moment. Right?

A tournament official stood in the middle of the track, holding a flag down to the ground. The crowd chanted as they waited for the start of the round. The official waited a moment, two - and then swiftly flung up the flag as high as his arms would raise it.

Lord Philip reacted immediately - nudging his horse into a gallop. Quentin kicked Saxon strongly in the side to get him moving. Saxon wasn’t used to Quentin or his movements, and he reared up before running forward. Kady and Julia were almost thrown to the side, but recovered quickly, Julia urging Saxon on.

Lord Philip came blazing down the court, his lance securely holstered in his cradle. Each participant had a cradle attached to their armor, for holding the back end of the lance securely in place. Part of the joust was lifting the lance into the appropriate position, and using the cradle to help secure that hold as you struck your opponent. Quentin flailed a bit as Saxon steamed forward - the lance seemed heavier than he remembered. He struggled to control it as he took aim at Lord Philip, trying to keep his eyes on his opponent through the narrow field of vision while attempting to notch the lance in the cradle. He just couldn’t seem to land it in the damn thing.

Julia and Kady watched as the two combatants approached each other. Julia swallowed hard and muttered to herself - “Get it in the cradle. Get it in the cradle ..” Kady jumped up and down and yelled “GET IT IN THE CRADLE!”

Lord Philip and Quentin raced towards each other. The crowd could see Quentin’s struggle with the lance, and they started to rise to their feet as the two were about to meet. Right before Lord Philip was upon him, Quentin glanced down at his waist, and finally felt the lance cinch into place in the cradle - and he looked back up to see Lord Philip’s lance aiming right at his face.

Julia gasped out loud as Quentin took the full force of the blow right against his head, almost caving in his helmet. Quentin’s upper half fell backwards against his horse’s back, and the lance rolled out of his hand…but he stayed on the horse. He had won!

Julia raced across the track to Quentin, Kady hot on her heels. Quentin was still wobbling back and forth in the saddle. “Quentin, are you alive?? Can you hear me?” Julia grasped what she could reach of Quentin, which was mainly his waist as he lolled about on the horse’s back. 

Kady was jumping up and down behind Julia, yelling “We won! We won!” She grabbed Julia in a backwards hug in celebration.

“Will you get off me?” Julia huffed. “Quentin, can you hear me?” she said again. “Kady, help me,” she said as she struggled to push Quentin upright.

Quentin muttered, “Did we win?” as he seemed to come back to himself. Stars, everywhere. So pretty ...

“He’s breathing. He’s breathing!” Julia exclaimed, hugging Kady. The pair celebrated excitedly as Quentin tried to put his brain back together.

* * *

The trio stood together at the award ceremony, Julia and Kady on each side of Quentin. Quentin, dazed but aware, was still clad in the full suit of armor, including his helmet. The visor on it was badly bent, making it a chore to remove. Which was a boon really, as removing the helmet would clue in everyone that he wasn’t Sir Mayakovsky, and _wow we really thought this through, didn’t we..._

Lord Rowan stood, ready to award the winners their prizes. The trophy for this tournament would be enough to feed them for some time. As they waited for the ceremony to start, Quentin’s mind was swirling with the possibilities, the adrenaline still rushing through his body. He relished the feeling, the power he felt, even if it was just for a moment before his head was almost blasted off his torso. A plan started to take shape in his mind. Normally when a knight died, the squires would hope to get picked up by another, or make their own way in the world. However, now...

Quentin was brought back to Fillory with a jolt as Julia nudged him. Unable to see anything, Quentin turned towards the voice speaking near him - it was the official from earlier. “Sir Mayakowsky, please remove your helmet.”

After a pause, Quentin responded, his voice slightly muffled, “My lord, I’m afraid the final blow of the lance has bent it on to my head.” He tapped the front of the helmet for emphasis.

The official turned back to the tournament head. “I present your champion, my lord.”

Quentin heard the crowd cheer. That was good, yeah? 

Lord Rowan held the top prize in his hands. It was a golden feather, presented on a soft pillow. Kady’s eyes widened as she saw the trophy. It would fetch a nice price indeed, and soon they would have full bellies and a good night’s rest in a soft bed.

Lord Rowan presented the pillow and feather to Quentin, who stood there with his hands at his sides. Lord Rowan waited for Quentin to take the prize… but since Quentin couldn’t actually see anything except the inside of his visor, he was content to stand silent, waiting for something to happen. After a moment, Julia reached over and lifted Quentin’s hand to formally acknowledge and receive their trophy. Quentin felt around on the pillow, and grasped the end of the delicate gold feather. He held it aloft for the crowd to see, and they cheered enthusiastically.

Julia and Kady waved at the crowd, as Quentin turned in the direction of the shouting and waved as well. Julia took his elbow and led him out of the arena, to their tent. They needed to discuss their plans for “discovering” Mayakovsky’s body. And Quentin had a proposition for them.

* * *

Lord Eliot Waugh and his handmaiden Margo lounged on a blanket outside the nearby castle, enjoying a feast of various fruit and cheeses. The scenery was idyllic - they were situated by a lovely little pond, and the forest could be seen off in the distance. The sky was a deep, rich blue, with a few puffy clouds moving along.

Taking a strawberry, Eliot turned to Margo, “So, tell me about last night. You barely made it back in time for breakfast.”

Margo gave Eliot a sly smile, throwing her hair back to feel the sun on her face. “Well what can I say? It had been a while and mama was hungry. I had to take my time and enjoy it.”

“Were you with Peter or Samantha?” Eliot asked.

“Why does it have to be just one?” Margo replied. “It was divine. I haven’t been eaten out that much since you were sent to visit that convent in Bordeaux.”

“Ah, yes… where you ensured we’d have lofty positions in hell. I still can’t believe there were that many attractive nuns. I thought they would all be old and… shriveled.”

Margo laughed, her smile lighting up her entire being. “Darling, shriveled was definitely not how I’d describe them. Moist and...nubile would be a better fit.”

Eliot loved times like these, alone with Margo, to just be and relax. They were few and far between. Tournament season would soon be upon them, and as such Eliot would be traveling to “represent the family” at a few of the events. The next month or so would include a lot of time in carriages and sleeping in strange beds. While Eliot loved to travel, it could get exhausting - there were many official functions he was expected to attend (sober), toes he was supposed to not step on, etc. Why his family thought he was a good fit for this, he had no idea, but he wasn’t one to turn down a chance to get outside of the castle. The season would culminate with a grand tournament here, at his home in Fillory.

Eliot enjoyed any time he could get outside of stone walls. Granted, he did get a lot more of it than his father was aware of, thanks in no small part to the wiliness of Margo, his official handmaid and BFF. They had found each other when she was delivered to the court for service years ago, and had been inseparable ever since. 

For the past twenty-odd years, Eliot had lived in relative comfort in Fillory. Born into the aristocracy, he was used to the perks that his status brought him. His family was related to the High King, by some degree - close enough to enjoy the title and perks of “royalty” but far enough away that he had little worry about being called up to do actual work or rule in any fashion. He had no desire to be a part of ruling any place, let alone Fillory. 

Charismatic with a cheeky grin that often turned into a sly smile, eyes that made you feel like you were the center of some universe, and an easy stride that made you think he had it all figured out, Eliot was popular with the people of Fillory. He was not as popular with his immediate family, for a myriad of reasons, the least of which being that Eliot took advantage of his popularity in “lewd and destructive” ways (so said his father).

The first time he’d been hauled back to the castle in the middle of the night, still a bit drunk and dazed after spending a few hours at a local pub and a few more in a new friend’s bed, his father had been upset, but not quite nuclear. After the fourth or fifth time, his father threatened to disown him and bar him from the castle. From that point on, Eliot engaged a lot more strategy in his outings, and while he was sure his father wasn’t completely in the dark, he was discreet enough for his behavior to fly under the radar.

It was one of the many reasons Eliot was so thankful that Margo had come into his life. When she was delivered for service to the court, they had taken to each other immediately. He had begged to have her as his handmaiden, and while a few eyebrows were raised, eventually his father consented. In her, he had found a soulmate - someone who understood at least a little of the madness inside his head, and someone who loved him for who he was and not who he should be. Thanks to her, he had spent more than a few nights outside of the castle, enjoying one bedmate (or more) while Margo made sure his absence was not discovered. In exchange, he made sure she got her own alone time… and sometimes they snuck a friend or two into the castle for some illicit fun together.

Eliot recognized he was lucky that he still had some freedom in his life, for as much as he pushed his father’s boundaries - he was free to leave the castle as he wished (as long as his Royal Guard accompanied him), and he would have some say in his spouse.

He was expected to eventually marry, hopefully for the family’s gain - and such a union would have to have the blessing of his father. The Waugh’s were well-respected in Fillory, and as such, Eliot had no shortage of suitors, even with his reputation as a bit of a playboy. As Eliot came of age, many men and women were beginning to come by the castle more often, requesting social time with him. He had once thought he was maybe ready to settle down, but after one devastating affair a couple of years ago that left his heart broken, he had squelshed that prospect… but he recognized that he may not have a choice for much longer.

Preferring not to think about that eventuality, he instead spent much time with Margo engaging in his favorite pastime - planning the best royal balls and parties this kingdom had ever seen. No one could deny that Eliot (with Margo’s assistance) could throw a hell of a party, and as such he was mainly left to his own devices on that front. Still, Eliot could feel his destiny looming over his head...one that he had may have very little choice in.

“What about you?” Margo asked, peering up at Eliot. He had been lazily floating his flask in a circle above their heads, and at her words it descended gracefully into his hands. “You haven’t seen anyone you like lately? The Lord that came by last week from Ramshorn was pretty delicious … what was his name… ?”

Eliot chuckled. “Borin. His personality suited his name quite well.” Eliot took a sip of his liquor, relishing the familiar taste on his tongue. “Not lately. I’m not sure if I’m in a rut, but no one seems to … light my fire, so to speak.”

“Well, once we get on the road, I bet you’ll change your tune,” Margo said, popping another square of cheese in her mouth, and following it up with a sip of wine. “One can only hope,” Eliot replied, looking off into the distance. 

There was no denying that he wanted to fall in love. He had thought he was there once, but to say it hadn’t worked out was an understatement. That experience had left him much more guarded with his heart. He had never met another person that captured him that way, no one that swept him away so far he didn’t care enough to come back. And in all honesty, Eliot didn’t think such a person existed.

So since that would never happen, Eliot was content to play with what (or whom)ever caught his fancy. Until fate (or his father) said otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your reading - this is my first fiction posting, and I appreciate all the comments and kudos.
> 
> Also - what is religion in this version of Fillory? A little bit of this, little bit of that.

A few hours after the award ceremony, Julia, Kady, and Quentin were huddled on a small dirt road next to their loaded cart. After reporting that Sir Mayakovsky suffered some kind of ailment (probably a result of a lifelong diet of vodka and mutton) when they returned to their tent and sadly passed away, the group packed up their gear. Julia was a few feet away, speaking with a local merchant to sell the golden feather. They would split the earnings among the three of them.

“Twenty,” Julia stated, looking at the merchant while holding out the trophy, the gold glinting in the late afternoon sun. It was very pretty.

“Hrmph. Ten,” countered the merchant.

“Fifteen.”

“Done.” The merchant reached in his bag and pulled out several coins. Trading them for the feather, Julia walked back to her waiting friends. “Fifteen silver florins. He didn’t want that.” Julia tossed the pillow that the trophy came on to Kady. “That’s five for Quentin. Five for Kady. Five for Julia,” she said as she doled out the money. “I think I may use it to go back home.” Kady, who had been counting the coins in her hand excitedly, stopped and gave Julia a blank look at these words.

“Really?” Quentin said, surprised and a little hurt. They had been together for so many years, and had often talked of going back home to Fillory proper… but Quentin wasn’t sure how ready he was to face what may (or may not) be waiting for him.

“Yeah,” Julia replied softly, looking at first Kady, and then Quentin with a soft expression. “Just… why not? We don’t have anything holding us here now… Mayakovsky is dead, and I’d rather just find my own way then get stuck under another asshole knight who thinks we exist to find him booze and women.”

“I have an idea,” Quentin said to Julia, playing with the coins in his hand. One moved over his knuckles in a practiced form, left to right and back again. Julia looked back at him, waiting for his grand idea, her long brown hair blowing in the gentle breeze.

“Straight to the pub for me!” declared Kady. “Cottage pie, brie tart… tiny cakes with peppermint cream!” She stuffed her coins in her satchel, hanging off the side of the cart.

“We could do this,” Quentin said, the coins still moving over his fingers. 

“We did it. That silver in your hand proves it,” Julia said, looking at Quentin with amusement.

“No - no, I mean, we can do THIS. We can be champions.” Quentin spread his arms wide, his eyes moving from Julia to Kady, and then back again.

“Q … what are you talking about?” Julia asked, her confusion evident on her face. 

“Give me your coins,” Quentin requested, moving lightly on his feet. He could feel the adrenaline returning, the sureness he felt as he looked down at Lord Phillip in the arena. Now was the time. He could feel it, and he had to make them feel it too.

“No!” Kady said, still standing next to her satchel.

“Just, please Kady, give me your coins,” Quentin pleaded. He opened Julia’s hand and took her silver, and then opened Kady’s bag to retrieve hers.

Kady moved away to allow him access, her face stricken. She angrily pushed a stray dark curl that had fallen in her face behind her ear. She was not happy.

“Ok, so - one for you,” Quentin said, placing one coin back in Julia’s hand. “And one for you,” as he gave a second one to Kady. “Which leaves thirteen. That’s thirteen for training and outfitting.”

His face full of hopefulness, he grasped Julia’s hands. “The tournament in Rouen is in a month. In one month we could split a prize bigger than this one!”

Kady rolled her eyes, looking to Julia. 

“In one month, we could be on our way to glory and riches that none of us have ever dreamed of,” Quentin continued, his hands gesturing in excitement as he spoke. 

Julia sighed. “Quentin, in one month we could be lying in a ditch with Sir Mayakovsky. I don’t want glory and riches, I think I just want to go home while I still can.”

“Tansy cakes! Roasted quail! MEAD! I’ll take my five now!” Kady walked up to Quentin, holding her hand out for the rest of her coins.

Quentin looked from Julia to Kady, and back again. His mouth set in a hard line, he turned away from them and walked down the dirt path.

Kady and Julia looked at each other, bewildered for a moment, and then quickly chased after him. “Hey!” Kady called out angrily. “You seriously cannot think I will let you walk away with my fucking money!”

Julia caught up to Quentin, falling into step beside him. “You can’t even joust! And there are more events than just that, you know….”

Quentin slowed his pace some, but continued walking. “Most of it is the guts to take a blow, to strike your opponent. Guts I have.”

Kady huffed at that, and Quentin looked sharply at her. “Sorry Q, but you had to get me to get your money back when Arielle overcharged you the last time we went to market. Not to mention that you can’t even kill a snake on your own.”

Ignoring her, Quentin continued, “And technique? I have a month to learn that. Besides, name a man better at Welter’s than I am. Or with a sword!”

It was true. The one magic event allowed at tournaments was Welter’s, and the winner always seemed to come down to whoever sucked the least. The prestige was greater in the physical events, and as such contestants spent much more time training for them. Only royalty really had solid access to magic training, so the result was that Welter’s was mainly only good for watching contestants try not to blow themselves up.

Mayakovsky, for all his abuse, had been good for one thing - he prided himself on his magical prowess. He was self-taught, and he recorded many spells, which Quentin, Julia, and Kady gobbled up as often as they could. They all seemed to have a natural talent for magic, which perhaps was part of why they worked so well together as squires. 

Quentin was also very good with his hands - and he was particularly agile with a sword. As the only male squire under Mayakovsky (unusual to say the least, but Quentin had always suspected Mayakovsky could tell their adeptness at magic, and that was why he had chosen the three of them), he took on much of the physical labor. His body was strong, lithe, and he knew he could push it to not only master the sword, but the jousting lance as well.

Kady moved in front of Quentin, and stood her ground to force him to a stop. “In the practice ring, maybe! You’ll be knocked on your ass once, and that’ll be the end of it!”

“You’re not of noble birth!” Julia finally exclaimed. 

Quentin threw up his hands. “So we lie!” he declared. “How did the nobles become noble in the first place, huh?” Running his hands through his hair, he continued, “They took it! At the tip of a sword. I’ll do it with a lance.”

“A blunted lance,” Kady said.

“It doesn’t matter, Kady! A man  _ can  _ change his stars. I will not spend the rest of my life as nothing,” Quentin finished. This was his only chance, he knew it. He couldn’t go back to Fillory with nothing, not after what his father had sacrificed to give him an opportunity to be... more.

Julia sighed in frustration. She turned behind her, where off to the side of the road, a gallows stood. Hanging from it was a dead body, a criminal hung for his crimes. What those misdeeds were, they would never know, but the vultures perched on the edge of the structure didn’t care - they’d  strip the body of any meat as soon as it was ripe enough.

Julia pointed to the body - “THAT is nothing. And nothing is right where glory will take us!”

“We are children of peasants,” Kady chimed in. “DEAD peasants, for some of us. Glory and riches and stars are beyond our grasp. But a full stomach, that dream CAN come true!”

“Look. I know that there is a lot against this plan. It’s crazy and out there and yeah, maybe there’s a  _ slight  _ chance it’ll get us killed. But don’t you feel there’s more for us out there than just being at the bottom, working under some asshole for whatever crumbs they throw our way?” Quentin turned to Julia, “We found each other when we were eight years old. Jules, I was alone, and so scared, and you told me fantastic stories at night and made me feel safe. You made me feel, for the first time, like I belonged somewhere.” Julia’s face softened slightly.

Turning to Kady, “You hated me when we first met. You thought I was an arrogant dick with no sense of reality.”

“Well, you are,” Kady replied. 

“But when you broke Mayakovsky’s favorite beer stein, I was able to repair it for you using a flick of my fingers... and we realized how much we could learn from each other? We put up with so much shit under that Fillorian dick, but we did learn more magic than anyone in our circumstance has ever known. We do not have these gifts for nothing.” Her eyes slightly less murderous than they had been when Quentin was attempting to run away with her money, Kady looked over at Julia, who mirrored her expression back to her.

Quentin could sense they were close, but still weren’t convinced. He walked a few paces ahead of the women. Turning back to face them, he held out their coins in each a hand. Opening his palms to them, he said “If you can take your coins, go to Fillory. Eat cake. But if you can’t, you join me.”

Kady and Julia gaped at Quentin.

After a pause, Quentin smiled in victory. “See?? Money doesn’t matter!”

All at once Julia and Kady rushed him. His smile falling from his face, Quentin fell backwards as they tackled him. “Hold him down, Kady!” Julia cried as she jumped to her feet, her fingers moving. Ropes materialized and began to wind around Quentin’s ankles. 

“Oh, you have no idea how hungry I am!” Kady cried, attempting to pin Quentin’s wrists with one hand while the other pulled her knife she kept strapped in her side sheath.

Quentin threw Kady off easily and scrambled to his feet. “Dammit, Kady!” Quentin jumped away from Julia’s conjured trap, which faded away as Julia collapsed into giggles. “Julia, please,” Quentin pleaded to her. Julia’s laughter faded as she looked at Quentin. “Together, we can do this. With thirteen silver pieces, three peasants can change their stars.”

Julia looked at Quentin for a long moment, and then heaved a heavy sigh. “Gods love you, Quentin.”

Quentin smiled. “I know, I know,” he said as he wrapped Julia in a hug. “No one else will.”

* * *

After making sure Kady’s stomach was properly filled, the trio traveled a day or so. Finding a clear patch of forest, far enough away from the main traveled path that they shouldn’t be disturbed, they set about training. They had a few materials they traveled with from Sir Mayakovsky, and after bartering with a few merchants on the road, they had enough supplies to fashion a jousting dummy for Quentin to practice with. 

Days were spent with Quentin riding either Saxon or Thistle, their two horses, while aiming a lance at the practice target. And days were spent with Quentin dropping the lance, missing the target, and occasionally running into it.

“I think he’s getting worse,” Kady murmured to Julia, after Quentin slammed into the target, counter weight swinging around and knocking him off his horse. 

“He is getting worse,” Julia replied as Quentin groaned and picked himself up. To his credit, Quentin never faltered in his dedication to his training... although he took out his frustration on anything nearby he could break. His natural talent towards mending spells got a lot of practice.

In addition to training at the joust, they also drilled magic and sword fighting techniques. They found additional spells in Mayakovsky’s personal journals that he traveled with - some seemingly random, and some that could be used in competition. The trio practiced creating small rain clouds, trapping an eternal (they thought) flame in a jar, several degrees of battle magic, and charming a flask to never empty (probably the first spell Mayakovsky ever taught himself).

Julia and Kady worked with Quentin in training in swordfighting - using wooden training swords, they would both come at him at once. While Quentin was quite confident at first (“you talk any more shit and I’ll cut your tongue out,” Kady cautioned him at the start), he found the women had more speed and agility than he was used to from working with Sir Mayakovsky. Fighting against them made him more sure footed and aware with his blade. They also put him on his back more times than he was proud to admit.

During this training montage, Quentin found himself in an odd role - that of the confident leader. In his life, he had found himself just existing - moving from one place to another, be it his father dropping him off on some dark dock when he was eight years old, promising him to be good, or traveling across the lands with a horrible knight who took his shortgivings out on Quentin. While he always had his dreams, he never had a reason, a purpose to his life - but right now, after hours of training and feeling so exhausted it hurt to think about moving, he realized how invigorated he truly was. He looked forward to getting up each day, to working with his friends, to moving towards... something.

There was still that voice in his head. Whispering that the only thing he was moving towards was his death, to getting his friends killed. Quentin had lived with that voice all his life. It told him that his father gave him up not for a chance at a better life, but because he didn’t want him around anymore. Many days Quentin thought about how he should just give in to that voice. Some days he almost did, and those were the darkest days - when his brain felt broken and Julia had to cover for him while he laid on a hard mattress, unable to see any reason why he should get up again.

But he always did. And these past few weeks, those dark days were dwindling into nothing but a small memory. When he put on the armor and held a lance, he felt he truly was someone else - a confident, almost arrogant knight that spoke clearly and showed no sign of being broken. 

He was next to Julia and Kady, all three of them perspiring as they stood amongst the trees. Above them hung a wooden ring, just the right size for a lance to go through. They didn’t want to overwork the horses, so they had enchanted a cart (and it’s contents) to feel lighter than it truly was. The women would repeatedly run the cart next to the ring, as Quentin attempted to get the tip of his lance inside it with every pass.

“You’ve missed it,” Kady said, breathing heavily as she gulped water from a canteen.

“You’ve missed it dozens of times,” Julia added, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to set the ring on fire.

Quentin looked at the ring, then back to Julia and Kady. “Well, I guess that means we should do it again. Come on.”

He walked away back towards the cart. Turning back to the ladies, he clicked his tongue. “Come on, ponies…” he continued, smirking.

Julia looked at Kady. “Fuck him up!” she said, and they gave chase to Quentin, laughing all the way.

He first time to actually hit the ring when they were training on a nearby shallow creek - the girls were pulling Quentin, standing upright on a small boat, each of them on either side of the stream. Ropes attached to the boat directed it quickly towards his target. Keeping his aim steady, the lance slipped right into the ring. “I made it!” Quentin said in celebration, throwing his arms up in the air.

The lance stayed in the ring as the boat continued to travel under it. Quentin maintained his grip on it, and the angle of it pushed him backwards, into the water. 

Julie and Kady stopped pulling the boat and cheered, running back to where Quentin had fallen in. Smiling, they waited for him to resurface. After a minute, they remembered he was in full, heavy armor and realized they had better rescue him.

Several days of training later, Quentin felt he was finally ready. He was consistently hitting the targets, breaking practice lances with the force of his blows. His body had adjusted to riding in the heavy armor, and they had perfected the spells from Mayakovsky. Just in time, as the tournament was only days away.

The trio packed up camp and slowly made their way to Rouen. The journey was slow, as they were on foot, with a packed cart pulled by Thistle. They also had Saxon, who they took turns riding. The days were long, but hopeful as the trio made their way through the countryside.

As Kady took her turn on the horse, Julia and Quentin led Thistle and the cart. They were discussing how to obtain more spells - Julia had heard rumblings of some for sale in Rouen, but you never knew if the spells you obtained would be truly worth what you paid for them until they were cast. Quentin caught sight of a figure walking up the path behind him, and he turned to get a better look.

The person approaching them was a man… a very nude man. He didn’t seem to be bothered by this fact, as he trudged along rather matter-of-factly. Quentin trailed off mid-sentence, and Julia followed his gaze. “Whoa,” she commented. Kady stopped the horse and turned in the saddle to see what the fuss was about. 

The man was a bit taller than Quentin, with shaggy brown hair, his skin starting to show a bit of a tan (how long had he been walking?). His face showed a slight five o’clock shadow, and as he drew closer to the group, they could see his skin was dirty, streaked with dirt, mud, and possibly blood? He was mildly chubby, with a slight belly. The three stared at him as he walked past their horses and cart. “Morning!” he said cheerily, patting the horse as he moved down the path. Gobsmaked, the trio’s heads followed the man’s bare ass, stark white and almost bouncing with each step.

“Oi, sir!” Quentin called after him. The man, by now a few paces up the path, stopped and fully turned to face them. Julia looked everywhere but at him, while Kady fully took him in, a smile spreading across her face. “What are you doing?” Quentin asked, after a moment of trying and failing to find other words.

“Uh… trudging,” the man replied. Quentin and the women looked at each other, and then back to the man. “You know, trudging? To trudge. The slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in his life except the impulse to simply... soldier on.” With these words, the man turned away from them and continued on a few steps down the path.

“Well… were you robbed?” Quentin asked.

The man gave a dry chuckle and turned back to them. “Well, interesting question, actually. Yes, and then at the same time, a huge, resounding no. It’s more a sort of involuntary vow of poverty, really.” The man turned away again and continued walking. This time, the three friends followed a few steps behind him.

“But you know, on the brighter side, trudging does represent pride! Pride, resolve, and faith in the good lord almighty please, christ, rescue me from my current tribu - oh!” The man finished his sentence with a cry, having stepped on something sharp along the road. Grimacing, he brought his foot up to his mouth, grabbed the splinter between his teeth, and spat it out on the ground.

“Who are you?” Julia asked.

“Lilium inter spinas. The lily among the thorns. Josh Hoberman's the name. Writing's the game.” He took a few steps forward. At no response from the three, he turned back to them.

“Hoberman? Joshua Hoberman? The writer?”

A blank look was exchanged between the group. Julia and Kady shook their heads slightly.

“I write! With ink and parchment. For a penny, I’ll scribble you anything you want. Summonses, decrees, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility. I've even been known to jot down a poem or two, if the muse descends. You probably read my book, The Book of the Duchess.” At the blank looks from Kady and Julia, he continued “Fine, well, it was allegorical.”

While Kady and Julia seemed amused, Quentin’s mind had jumped at the words “patents of nobility.” Usually lineage wasn’t verified at the earlier tournaments of the year, and he’d planned to seek out a forger he’d heard rumors about, but it seemed an opportunity may have walked right into their path.

“Did you say ‘patents of nobility’?” Quentin asked, trying and failing to hide how truly interested he was.

An amused smile started to spread on Josh’s face, and for the first time, he really looked at Quentin. “Yes, that’s right, I did. And you travelers are?”

Quentin took the lead, as they had discussed this during their travels and training. “W-well,” Quentin started, “I- I am Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein, from Gelderland.” Gesturing to Julia and Kady, he continued, “These are my faithful squires, Kimberly of Dodgington -” he touched Julia’s shoulder, “and Samantha of Crewe,” he finished, gesturing to Kady. He then gave an expectant look to Josh.

Nodding his head and grabbing Quentin’s hand in a firm handshake, Josh said “And I’m Richard the Lionheart, pleased to meet you.” Laughing, he continued, “No, I'm Charlemagne! No, I’m St. John the Baptist!” he continued with a flourish, clearly pleased with himself.

Quentin’s face tightened. A surge of anger tinged with humiliation ran through him - if one crazy person on the street could see through them, what hope did they have of convincing a panel of officials? Seizing that anger, Quentin withdrew his short sword from his side sheath and thrust it in Josh’s face. Josh, surprised, recoiled backwards, falling onto his ass. “All right!” Quentin followed Josh down to the ground, holding the tip of his blade close to Josh’s throat. “Hold your tongue, sir,or lose it!”

Josh held up a hand to stop Quentin, and looked up into his eyes. A strong, genuine smile crossed his face. “Now see, that, sir, I do believe. Sir Ulrich,” he said.

Quentin paused, surprised at his own actions, then “Thank you … Josh.” He put his blade back in it’s sheath and stepped back so Josh could get up. 

Kady cleared her throat. “Have anything more to say, Master Nude, or may we be on our way?” The trio started walking back to their cart.

Josh called, still sitting in the grass on the side of the path, “Oh, you’re off to the tournament, are you?”

“This is the road to Rouen,” Julia responded back to him.

“Well, you know, that really remains to be seen,” Josh replied, making himself more comfortable on the grass. “See, they’re limiting the field at Rouen. Noble birth must be established for four generations on either side of the family. Patents of nobility must be provided.” A smug look on his face, he rested his arms on his bare knees. “Not so easy to forge these days… most tournaments are starting to inspect patents for fraudulent charms. Fortunately I have some training in those arts and can provide impeccable documents.”

The three friends stopped in their tracks. This wasn’t a hurdle they expected to have to cross just yet. Quentin looked hard at Josh. Heaving a sigh, he placed his hands on his hips and looked to the ground. It seemed they would be blocked at every turn. Something he probably should have anticipated, he thought, when you’re attempting to forge knighthood.

Josh seized his opportunity. “Listen. Clothe me, shoe me, for god’s sake feed me, let me ride that horse a bit, and you’ll have your patents.”

Quentin turned to Julia and Kady. They huddled together, a few paces away from Josh. “How?” Kady whispered.

“Patents of nobility...” Quentin trailed off. 

“We need him,” Julia said.

“Alright,” Kady said. “Let me handle him.”

“Be nice,” Julia said as Kady walked purposefully back down the path.

Kady knelt down directly in front of Josh, no concern for his nudity. Looking him straight in the eyes - “Here’s the deal. You fuck us over, and I will find you. And I will fuck you up. I’m talking your insides will be your outsides, and your entrails will be your extrails. I have done it before. I will not hesitate to do it again. You get me?” 

Josh swallowed hard. “I believe you. I get you. I get you!”

“Pain,” Kady said simply. “Lots of pain.”

* * *

Soon they were in Rouen. This tournament was a bit more crowded than the last - the crowds would probably only get larger the later in the season they got, and the closer to World Championships in Fillory. Qualifiers were already underway; the crowd from the jousting area cheered behind the group as they approached the registrar’s table.

Josh took the lead, patents firmly in hand. Quentin hovered a ways behind him, nervously watching the exchange. Speaking with a seasoned confidence, Josh began,“May I present my Lord Ulrich, whose mother's father was Shilhard von Rechberg, son of the Duke Guelph of Saxony, son of Ghibellines, son of Wendish. The same Wendish who inherited the fief of -” 

“That'll do, herald.” The three men at the table exchanged an amused look at Josh’s flamboyancy. The man in the middle continued impatiently “Six generations is more than enough. Please show me the patents.”

Josh placed the documents down in front of the official, and unrolled them for his perusal. Quentin’s eyes darted around the area, anywhere but at the official who was deciding their fate. If anything was out of place...

The official picked up the patents, and passed them to the man to his left. “Please indicate in which events your Lord Ulrich will compete.”

A series of wooden shields, each painted with a picture depicting a certain event, hung over the officials' heads. Picking up a nearby stick, Josh reached up and struck the shield painted with a lance (for the joust), the one with two swords crossed together (for the sword fight), and one full of black and white squares with a lightning bolt imposed over them (for Welter’s). The official consulted his schedule, and informed Josh, “He'll first meet Roger Lord Mortimer.” He offered the patents back to Josh.

“Thank you very much!” Josh beamed as he gathered the patents and strode back to Quentin.

Julia smiled at Kady, thrilled. She gave Quentin, who seemed almost frozen in place, a quick side hug. She and Kady guided their horses in the direction of the stable. They fell normally back into their roles as squires, but this time - Quentin (or rather, Sir Ulrich) was their liege.

Josh and Quentin strolled through the tournament grounds, moving into the nearby township. “I can’t believe it. You did it, Hoberman.” Quentin told Josh. “I have to thank you, I didn’t think we had a chance.”

They passed a nearby group of men playing dice. Josh’s eyes stayed on them, watching the game. A look of anticipation, longing, almost, crossed his face. Quentin was so caught up in their success, he didn’t notice. Shaking his head, Josh turned to Quentin, “My pleasure, Quentin. Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick around. See how things turn out.”

Quentin gripped Josh’s shoulder to hold him in place. He had one more ask of him. “Act as my herald, and I’ll see to it you get a share of any winnings.”

Josh grinned at Quentin. “Done,” he said as they shook hands. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to go see a man about a dog.”

Watching Josh depart, Quentin allowed himself a moment to bask. Even though the voice was whispering that it was all temporary, Quentin relished how close he felt to his version of happiness. He had spent so much of his life thinking about his father, his hopes for Quentin’s future, and how much of a failure he had turned out to be. Now, he had a shot, a chance to change his fate… and he would see that it wouldn’t be squandered.

A smile on his lips, Quentin walked further into the village square. He had some time to explore.

* * *

Eliot and Margo strode through the square, speaking with citizens and browsing local wares. Trailing behind him were members of his Royal Guard, ensuring his safety from whatever dangers may lie in the local market. Like aggressive vendors or violent bunnies.

The two had arrived in Rouen two days prior - ahead of them were several days of political meetings, tournament play, and a celebration to honor... something, Eliot wasn’t really sure what. But he was sure that he was going to enjoy this week so much, he probably wouldn’t remember a thing about it by the time he got home.

“I do love tournament season,” Eliot said to Margo, eyeing a squire arguing with a potion vendor. “So many new… and  _ interesting  _ faces,” he continued, making eye contact with the man from a few stalls over. 

“It’s also my busiest season, keeping you out of trouble. Although it is worth it, I suppose,” Margo replied, smiling at a local courtesan that passed by. While she loved Eliot dearly and would not be parted from him no matter the cost, she had to admit that being in the royal circle had other certain advantages… to her status and her ability to have whomever she may want... for however long she may want.

“You know you love it. Now let’s grab a snack while we appreciate the scenery.” Eliot purchased two pastries from a cart, and then hooked his arm through Margo’s while they strolled to a nearby bench.

After a few moments of watching citizens pass by, Margo took her leave to return to the nearby castle where they were staying, needing to see to a few things before their meetings later that day. Eliot decided to remain in the square for a while longer, not ready to return just yet.

“Ok, Bambi,” Eliot responded, giving her a smile. “I’ll be pining for you until I see your beautiful face again.”

“You better, bitch,” Margo answered, gracefully gliding down the path.

Eliot sat for a few minutes, smiling and chatting with passersby. The Royal Guard mingled nearby, never far. From his seat, he had a good view of a few local vendors, one of which sold unique glassware, blown into beautiful shapes and figures.

He observed a man walk up to the stall, and his breath caught in his throat. He seemed a bit unremarkable at first glance, but Eliot felt possessed to look closer. Shorter than Eliot, the man had shoulder length hair, broad shoulders, and what Eliot just knew were strong arms clothed in a loose fitting tunic. His pants were form fitting, giving Eliot an impression of a tight rear end. He was examining a small glass fox, and he seemed captivated by its beauty. 

The wonderment in his eyes was what really drew Eliot in. It was such a simple thing, but this man was gazing at it like he saw the secrets to the universe in the sculpted animal.  _ What would it feel like to be looked at that way? _ Eliot wondered.

Then, as the man reached to set it down, his grip slipped and the fox tumbled to the ground, breaking into a few pieces upon the stone floor of the square. His face crumpled into an expression of horror, his soft brown eyes widening as he attempted to gather the pieces. Eliot knew his effort was futile, and the vendor would most likely demand payment for the broken item. He was just about to get up to offer to help (a most excellent opening for a conversation), when the man glanced around him, as if to see if anyone was watching, and then started to move his fingers.

Eliot was spellbound as he wanted the intense concentration on the man’s face as he moved his fingers in a tut Eliot was only mildly familiar with. Education in magic was basically required for Eliot, as he had natural talent almost literally bursting out of him. While it was very much a large part of him, since not many had access to such training, it wasn’t something he displayed often - he tended to bring it out when he was with friends and family, or when he needed to make an impact on someone. And here was another using it, albeit unintentionally, to make quite an impact on him.

As he watched, the pieces of the broken figure rose in the air, and then gracefully moved together. After a few seconds, the original fox figure, pristine and spotless, was floating in the air in front of the man. Grinning triumphantly, he gingerly grasped the fox and placed it back on the table. At that moment, he glanced up and locked eyes with Eliot.

Eliot felt a surge of energy run through him, accompanied by a swoop in his belly. He had never believed in the concept of “love at first sight,” but “lust at first sight” was something he had much experience with. However, this feeling of “lust combined with the need to press a soft kiss to his forehead and bury his nose in his hair ” was a new one. He didn’t know who this man was, but he had to speak to him. Rising to his feet, as if drawn by a magnet, he made a path directly to him.

The man’s gentle brown eyes widened a bit as he saw Eliot move his way. His eyes were darting back and forth, as if he was afraid he would be reprimanded for what Eliot had just witnessed. 

“Hello,” Eliot said when he reached him. Up close, his eyes were weary but vivid, and they formed a beautiful face with a strong nose and a lovely, lovely mouth.

“Hi,” the man replied, gazing at Eliot. His brown hair hung to his shoulders, and as he studied Eliot, he pushed a lock behind his ears. Eliot wondered if it felt as soft as it looked.

“That was quite the trick,” Eliot commented, gesturing to the glass fox. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a smooth mending before.”

“Mending?” he asked, a questioning look on his face. 

“Putting the figure back together. That’s a form of physical magic, minor mending. I assume you’ve been trained?”

“Trained?” the man asked. Was he just going to repeat everything Eliot said? Maybe he was a pretty-but-dumb one, and the magic was just a fluke. But even as he had the thought, Eliot dismissed it. He may be socially awkward, but his technique was too on-point for a one-off.

Suddenly, it seemed like the man remembered himself. He stood up straighter and nodded. “Yes! I was trained growing up, you know, to be a knight. In magic. And things.”

“And things?” Now Eliot was the one parroting him. “Where are you from?”

“I am a knight of Gelderland.”

“Gelderland. I don’t believe I’ve heard of that area.”

“Oh, it’s a ways away. A small township. Brilliant but far… far away.”

Eliot could tell something was off, the dots not quite connecting, as the knight’s eyes darted around nervously. “Is this your first tournament?”

“Yes. No! No. It’s not, but it is my first one HERE. In Rouen.” At Eliot’s bewildered expression, the knight continued. “I’m sorry, you’re just… you’re royalty, yes? I’ve never really spoken to any members of the royal families before, and you have really nice eyes and you’re so tall and I’m… going to stop talking now.”

Eliot had to try hard to suppress the grin from forming on his face. Even though what the knight was saying didn’t really make sense (you had to speak to someone in royalty to even become a knight), that didn’t stop the flirtatious tone flowing from his lips before he could even think about stopping it. “Please don’t stop. I would hear you speak if it cost me my ears.”

The man’s face had been tinged pink, but at Eliot’s words, they blossomed into full scarlet.

Again, just unable to contain himself, Eliot continued “Are you  _ sure  _ you’re a knight? I don't think I've ever met one that blushed before.”

Nervously chuckling, the knight replied, “Yes, I’m sure. Quite.” After a breath, Eliot saw something flicker in the knight’s eyes. “May I ask you your name?”

Feeling a bit sassy, Eliot responded, “Would you care if I weren’t so tall with nice eyes?”

Looking surprised, the knight responded, “Well yes.” At Eliot’s raised eyebrows, he quickly recovered, “I mean no. I mean, if-”

He was mercifully cut off by Margo’s voice behind him. “My lord, you are needed back at the castle.”

Turning briefly to Margo, he gave her a nod, and then back to his flustered knight. “I’m afraid I must take my leave of you. I wish you good fortune in this week’s tournament.”

As Eliot went to turn away, he heard the knight softly ask again, “Can I have your name?” 

Meeting those soulful eyes once more, Eliot felt himself wanting to give this man anything he requested. Mentally shaking himself, he replied, with no small amount of cheek, “Call me a fox, and see if you can catch me, Sir Hunter.” With one last smile, Eliot made his way to where Margo and his guard were waiting. He could feel the knight’s stare on him the entire way.


	3. Chapter 3

Later that day, Quentin had his first jousting match as Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein. Although initially his thoughts were preoccupied by the captivating man he’d met earlier in the day, soon a different kind of butterfly took over his belly as he mounted his horse. Still wearing Sir Mayakovsky’s armor, but painted with a new crest by Julia, he spurred Saxon into action. Focusing on the past four weeks of training, he fell into the muscle memory, and easily defeated Roger Lord Mortimor, breaking his lance as he drove it into the competitor’s chest plate. Julie and Kady ran to Quentin, joyfully screaming and cheering as he removed his helmet. As they hugged Quentin and he was proclaimed the winner, he said, “Easy ladies. They are likely to think it’s the first time I’ve broken a lance.” Quentin waved to the cheering crowd.

“But it is!” Kady said, so excited, her usual somber expression was replaced by a joyous grin.

“But Sir Ulrich has broken thousands of lances,” Quentin replied, still riding the high.

“Well master of a thousand lances, come on. You’re due on the Welter’s board in two minutes.” Julia grabbed Saxon’s reins and tugged him out of the arena.

A few moments later, Kady and Julia were hitting Quentin in the torso area of his armor with heavy wooden batons. Quentin held his arms up as high as he could as they tried to bang the dings out of his armor. Mayakovsky had used this for the better part of a year, and the wear was starting to show.

Quentin raised his right arm, and found that due to the tight buckles needed to keep a loose arm plate in place, he couldn’t raise it above his shoulder. “Shit. If I have to cast high or anything comes at me overhead, I can’t block.” Julia fiddled with the buckles, and then said, “Well there’s nothing for it now. You’re overdue on the board as we speak.” They started to head in the direction of the Welter’s area.

Quentin groaned audibly in frustration as they hurried. “It was a mistake to do so many events. I don’t have time to breathe. I should withdraw from Welter’s.”

Kady shook her head. “Welter’s is by far what you’re best at. Even without formal training, you’ll blow most everyone else out of the water.”

“Prizes are bigger in the joust. Prestige as well,” Quentin countered. Julia was about to speak when they were suddenly accosted by a large, rather greasy looking man.

“Ulrich von Lichtenstein?” he asked, stopping the trio in their steps. “Yes?” replied Quentin. The man continued, “I’m Simon the Summoner.”

Dismissing the man, Quentin responded, “And I’m overdue on the Welter’s board.” He attempted to step around him, but Simon put a hand up and forcibly stopped Quentin. “I must detain you on behalf of your herald.” The man gave Quentin a smile that did not ease his mind at all.

Moments later, they were under Simon’s tent, among Simon’s men (who appeared to be just as greasy as Simon himself), and an again-naked, but now appropriately ashamed, Josh Hoberman was standing in the center. Simon held an axe, but despite the threatening presence of the weapon, his face wore an expression of amusement. His partner, an equally smarmy man with a half-shaved, half long hairstyle, stood near Josh, running his fingers over his short blade as he ran his eyes down Josh’s body and back up again.

“You were never robbed, were you?” Quentin asked him, arms crossed and his mouth a thin line.

Josh met Quentin’s eyes and then looked away. “Look, I have a gambling problem. I can’t help myself. These people-" Josh faltered a bit as the man with the short blade caught his eye - “will literally take the clothes off your back.”

“What do you expect us to do about it?” Quentin asked, his good mood from his first win thoroughly obliterated by the broke, nude man in front of him.

Fetish-sword-guy took his eyes off his blade for a moment to pipe in - “He assured us that you, his liege, would pay us.”

Quentin gave Josh a look of surprise and thinly veiled contempt. Josh’s eyes pleaded back at Quentin - he was not one to beg, but he knew his consequences would be grim.

Quentin turned back to sword-guy. “And who are you?”

Sword-guy seemed to bask in the attention. In this tent were probably the best-looking people he’d ever interacted with in his entire life. “Peter,” he said with a flourish. “A humble pardoner... and purveyor of religious relics.”

Nodding, Quentin asked, “How much does he owe you?”

Simon supplied the answer here - “Ten gold florins.”

Eyes widening in shock, Quentin gaped at Simon, and then fully glared at Josh. Julia let out a scoff of disbelief, while Kady erupted in anger - shoving Josh up against the makeshift wall of the tent. “You son of a bitch!” she told him, delivering a blow to his head. She reared up to hit him again, but Quentin and Julia intervened. “Hey, hey! Let him go,” Quentin told her, grabbing Kady and dragging her away from Josh.

“Fuck!” Josh exclaimed, attempting to staunch a small blood flow from his lower lip. Applying pressure, he turned back to Quentin, who had collected himself.  
  
“What would you do to him if I refused?” Quentin asked Simon. He kept his gaze on Josh, who was—now bloody and still ever so naked—cowering under Quentin’s gaze. 

“We, on behalf of the Lord God, will take it from his flesh so that he may understand... that gambling is a sin.” Simon read out his sentence, tapping Josh on the shoulder with his axe, unable to keep the pleasure at this prospect from coloring his voice.

Quentin and Josh looked at each other for a long moment. “Oh, come on,” Josh pleaded softly. “Please, Quentin.” As he spoke this name, Josh flinched, realizing his error. Simon looked on curiously. Gathering his strength, Josh continued, “Please, will you help me, Sir Ulrich? I promise you won't regret it.”

Quentin felt pity for the man in front of him. He had been in his situation - not exactly, but he had found himself at someone else’s mercy due to his own faults. He had not felt sympathy from any of his lords - but perhaps he could be a better one than he had known.

“I don’t have the money,” Quentin said. It was true; they had spent all of their winnings on training materials and food for themselves and the horses. Even with crafting what few items they could via magic, the gold and silver had disappeared quickly. They were depending on their winnings here to carry them forward. Josh sighed, his head dropping into his hands.

“Release him,” Quentin directed. Josh’s head snapped up. “For God’s sake, give him back his clothes. And you’ll get it.”

“Done,” Simon said. He snapped his fingers at Peter, who sadly put away his blade and retrieved Josh’s shirt and pants. Josh gave a grateful look to Quentin, and grabbed his garments.

“You lied,” Quentin told Josh as the group hurried to the Welter’s board.

“Yes, yes, I lied,” agreed Josh, struggling into his shirt as they moved among the crowd. “I’m a writer, I give the truth scope!”

They were nearly upon the board and very late, and Josh began his intro for Quentin as they entered the board area. “Behold my Lord Ulrich von Lichetenstein!” he bellowed. “Son of-” 

“Too late!” the official near the board told him. 

“Excuse me?” Josh asked.

“Too late, he’s been announced,” the official said.

“Fine.” Josh moved off to the side of the board. Kady and Julia followed. The trio staked out a spot near the edge of the board.

“Clear five spots to win! Sir Loring to approach first!” The official, clearly irritated by their lateness, started the match immediately.

Welter’s in tournament competitions was modified from the pure magic version played by Master Magicians. It was not available at every tournament, and when it was, it was stripped down to the barest principle spells, and the contestants stepped onto the board from the start. They were subject to physical attacks from each other right off the bat, hence why both contestants wore armor. The first to either clear five squares or fully knock their opponent off the board would win. A ward did surround this arena as well, but it was for the spectators protection - one too many decapitated peasants had resulted in the protective barrier to prevent any spells from escaping the confines of the arena.

Most knights that choose to complete relied on battle magic in an attempt to KO their opponent. This is what made it most dangerous, as battle magic took years to master, and it was rare to find a knight that was truly skilled. Kady’s specialty was battle magic - and, after forming a tentative truce with Quentin years earlier, she shared her knowledge with him and Julia. Quentin wasn’t near as adept as Kady, but he was more than skilled enough to prevail against most opponents.

The rage from having to give up part of his first winnings bubbling inside him, Quentin took his place in the starter’s square. He observed his opponent, Sir Walter Loring, a large man who was clearly ready to get going. Sir Loring picked up the heavy globe, and cast it in Quentin’s general direction. It landed solidly on a black square, which meant a physical attack. Sir Loring quickly cast a tut that sent a shody wave of energy Quentin’s way. It was weak and Quentin was more than capable of shielding against it, but his anger was still occupying his mind. The energy glanced off his shoulder. It wasn’t much of a blow, just enough to send Quentin a bit off kilter, but it was enough to clear the square. The official called a point for Sir Loring and placed a white flag in his slot. Sir Loring moved further into the board.  
  
“Quentin! Get your head out of your ass and block, you shithead!” Kady, Josh, and Julia were standing along the edge of the arena, almost hanging over the wooden railing that ran along the arena border.

Quentin held out his hand, and the globe flew to him without delay. The weight of it always surprised him - it was small in diameter, but it took strength to accurately get it to land where you desired. Eyeing the board, he aimed for a similar black square that Sir Loring had used. The globe landed square in the center. Sir Loring appeared to brace himself for whatever was coming. Quentin took a centering breath, falling into the practice stance from his sessions with Kady.

Moving his fingers and hands, a swirl of energy erupted from him. It did not move towards Sir Loring - but rather to the board itself. The squares surrounding the one the globe had landed on all turned black as well - including the one Sir Loring was currently standing on. 

“Oh, shit,” Kady breathed. 

“Can he do that?” Josh asked.

“It’s allowed, or rather it’s not NOT allowed, but takes a lot of power. I didn’t even know he was capable of that,” Kady responded, watching in wonder.

An electric look of concentration on his face, Quentin continued his spellwork, building up power and taking energy from the square he had transmuted. Culminating in a final popper, Quentin pushed the movement Sir Loring’s way. The opposing knight had set up a shield, but the strength of Quentin’s spell shredded it, and Sir Loring was blasted against the railing.

The crowd went wild. It was rare to see such skill in Welter’s, and even rarer to see such a definitive win in just one spellcast. Josh jumped the barrier and ran into the arena, as the official held up the winners flag for Quentin. Josh grabbed Quentin’s wrist ,and raised their joined hands, declaring “YES! Behold my Lord Ulrich! The rock! The hard place!” The crowd quieted as Josh only grew in volume, making sweeping gestures with his free hands, turning Quentin to see the entire crowd surrounding him. “Like a wind from Gelderland he sweeps by, blown far from his homeland in search of glory and honor! We walk in the garden of his turbulence!”

Finishing his speech with his hands splayed open, presenting Quentin to the crowd, there was total silence as the spectators tried to make sense of what they’d just heard. Every eye was on them, and Quentin was about to try to crawl even further into his armor when -

“Yeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!” came the cry from Julia, still on the spectator’s side of the arena. She and Kady started applauding hard, and the crowd followed suit, cheering even louder than before.

So far, Lord Ulrich von Lichtenstein was undefeated.

* * *

The days of the tournament moved on - Quentin making gains in every contest. Three events was definitely too much, the group realized, as they hustled him from the joust arena to the sword arena to the Welter’s board. He hardly had time to eat, sleep, and refuel before he was putting his body and mind through another test.

Still, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He felt more alive than he had ever in his life. But even while he was having such success in the arena, his mind kept wandering to the man he’d met on his first day. He didn’t get his name, and he’d watched for him at every event - looking in the royal boxes, hoping to see him seated there, or perhaps in the square again. 

He had been embarrassed to be caught not only using magic, but using it to fix something he’d broken. Looking up from his repairs and seeing one of the most gorgeous creatures he’d ever laid eyes on gazing back at him with such frank amazement had sent him spiraling for a moment, unable to even remember how to speak properly, let alone recall the identity he’d crafted for himself.

The tall stranger had been impeccably dressed, in the fine threads that marked members of his status. His dark hair was short, but long enough to leave curly tendrils that would fall on his forehead. Quentin had immediately imagined running his fingers through those locks, as he gazed into his sultry hazel eyes before bringing his lips to his. He’d had to mentally slap himself for getting so carried away in literally thirty seconds of being in his presence.

He did not have much experience in romantic affairs. He had never had a really serious relationship, just a few dalliances with men and women that had found him “quirky” and “cute.” They never stuck around, although Quentin could hardly blame them. Who would want to deal with his nervous demeanor, selfishness, and insecurities on a daily basis? He often wondered how he had not yet driven Julia away.

Quentin had surprised himself with his boldness with the handsome stranger… and not so much at his awkwardness. He had basically told him how attractive he found him, and then demanding his name… he shouldn’t be surprised that a person of his status wouldn’t deign to give it to him. Still, when their eyes met, Quentin couldn’t deny the energy that had passed between them, the draw he felt to the man... Lord? Duke? Hopefully not a prince, no way Quentin could climb that cliff, to ever be worthy of a member of court at that level. 

As Quentin again cleared the board in his last Welter’s competition, his competitor yielding before Quentin could deliver the final blow, his friends gathered around him and cheered. “You did it,” Julia said, hugging Quentin as they moved out of the arena. “You are a champion!”

“Of Welter’s,” Quentin replied, his happiness not quite matching hers.

“And the sword! Isn’t that why we’re here? Come on, to the lists!” Julia refused to let his dourness bring her down, hugging Kady as Josh jumped up and around Quentin. “Do you want to touch him??” Josh egged on the crowd as they cheered Quentin’s departure. “DO YOU WANT TO TOUCH HIM???” 

* * *

“Now, I can’t pay you now, but I promise you I will, just as long -” Quentin was interrupted by a loud “NO!” from the blacksmith he was attempting to barter with. His hectic tournament schedule was proving to be a hard load not just for him - his chest plate had finally given up after his last joust of the day. A large crack was now a main feature, right across his torso. Quentin had felt it when Lord Joseph had landed the hit square over his heart, and said heart had almost stopped when he felt it give. Luckily Quentin had made it safely through that bout, but there was no way he could continue with his chest plate in its current state.

Quentin would have attempted to mend the armor himself, but the anti-magic ward that surrounded the arena would affect any magical enchantments on any items brought within. If he cast a spell to mend the chest plate, there was a chance that as soon as he stepped within the ward, his armor would return to its prior condition. The intent of the ward was to dispel any magical attempt at an advantage - and that included any effects to make armor more impenetrable.

Unfortunately, finding someone willing to take an IOU was not an easy task. Quentin had gone to each stall, and while he was having a successful tournament, the Lichtenstein name wasn’t quite yet famous enough to garner credit. 

The blacksmith in question thrust Quentin’s damaged armor back in his arms and dismissed him. Quentin looked at Kady, frowning. Moving to the next blacksmith an anvil over, Quentin started, “Excuse me - “ only to be yet again cut off. “Cash first! No promises!”

Not willing to give up, Quentin moved a few stalls down. Before he even opened his mouth, the blacksmith held up a hand and told him, “You may want to try the farris.” The blacksmith gestured across the way, where a petite woman with long blonde hair, tied in an intricate braid, was hammering on something. The woman glanced up at them, and then turned back to her work.

“A woman?” Quentin stated, incredulity heard in his voice. He remembered himself as he felt a strong punch right in his ribs. Looking up at Kady, he gave an apologetic smile and said, “Well the fact that she’s a woman of course doesn’t matter. I’m sure she’s as good as any man here. Better, I bet!” The blacksmith he was addressing did not take kindly to that. Kady did not seem satisfied. Quentin turned to Julia for support, and found that the expression on her face was not a friendly one.

“Thank you,” Quentin told the blacksmith as he attempted to escape the two women as fast as his legs would carry him. Kady and Julia followed him as he crossed the path to the new prospective blacksmith. Putting on his best smile, Quentin said, “Excuse me,” and just like at every other booth, the woman cut him off.

“Don’t work for free,” she said, carrying a horseshoe she had in progress over to her forge. The heat coming off it, off the entire area really, was stifling.

“And I can’t joust in broken armor,” Quentin replied, following her.

“Your problem, not mine,” she replied, continuing with her work. She pulled the shoe out of the fire, and over to her anvil. As she began to beat the metal into shape, she told him “Each drop of this sweat has a price on it.”

Quentin looked down at his armor, and then at the blacksmith pounding on the horseshoe like it had kicked her puppy. Considering his situation, he decided that not all knights could be noble all of the time. “Just as well,” he said, making like he was moving to leave. “They told me I was daft for even asking.” Keeping his eyes on her, he walked slowly out of the tent.

Just as he’d hoped, the blonde woman turned to him, fire in her eyes. “Who?” she demanded, pausing in her work. 

With his most innocent expression, Quentin explained, “Oh, the other armorers.”

Cooling the hot horseshoe briefly in a water bath, she asked, “Did they say I couldn’t do it because I’m a woman?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, they said you were great with horseshoes, but shit with armor. The fact that you were a woman wasn’t even mentioned.”

Practically spitting nails, the blacksmith tossed down her horseshoe. She then marched forward and grabbed the armor out of Quentin’s hands. “I’ll have this mended shortly. You will pay me out of your winnings.”

Nodding his head, Quentin agreed, “Of course. Thank you so much.”

He, Julia and Kady left the blacksmith booth. “You know I don’t approve of that,” Julia told Quentin.

“I should kick your ass into next year for that shit,” Kady agreed. “Taking advantage of a woman just trying to make it in a man’s world.”

“I know. It was shady. But do either of you have a better idea?” Quentin asked.

“That’s the only reason you’re still standing,” Kady said. “Plus, she’s pretty cute. I wouldn’t mind a reason to see her again.” At the look Julia gave her, she said "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you weren't thinking it too."

* * *

The next day, Elliot sat in the jousting arena, in the area of the grandstands set aside for royalty. The joust was currently in progress. He and Margo were seated off to the side, while the center area was reserved for the local ruling family.

Elliot didn’t care much for watching the tournament events, much preferring the parties that would come later, but he did promise his father he would take his duties on these trips seriously. Plus, he loved any opportunity to wear his best outfits. Today’s was one of his favorites - an ensemble full of rich purples - a dark shirt, paired with a lavender overcoat and matching trousers. A few members of the local household shared the booth with him, and Margo sat next to him, ever so elegant in a cloak and dress in shades similar to his own. 

Eliot watched as a vendor made his way through the spectators on the lower levels, selling food and wine. Eliot was wondering if he could get a refill of his own when a voice called from down below.

“My lord!” called a knight, capturing Eliot’s attention. He was handsome enough, in full armor, carrying his helmet under his arm. “I will win this tournament for you.”

“Nay, I will win for you!” called another contestant, also from the field.

While Eliot enjoyed attention, he wasn’t currently in the mood for it. He had not seen his mysterious magician in the past few days - he had spent far too much time in the castle in political meetings, which is not how he imagined these pilgrimages would go. Today was his first real chance to send some time not locked up in a room being talked to death, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit to hoping to see more of the soft brown eyes that had lingered in his mind.

Another voice to his right caught his attention. “My lord, May I present Count Sebastian Chatwin.” Turning, Eliot saw a herald introducing his lord. The herald was short, a tubby little man with a mustache that he really needed to reconsider. The herald continued, “Winner of the joust in Aubernia, and champion at Saint-Emilion.” Bowing to Eliot, he stepped aside and Count Chatwin appeared.

He was quite striking, was Eliot’s first impression. In a bit of a smarmy way, which Eliot could admit he was not adverse to. He was older, his hair graying, but it only served to make him more attractive and distinguished. He gave Eliot a charming smile, and said, “All forgotten when standing before the most handsome man in all of Fillory.” He then bowed before Eliot.

Eliot turned to Margo, giving her an amused look. Margo rolled her eyes slightly, unable to say what was really on her mind in mixed company. Eliot knew what was expected of him, in this public arena of political courtship. He could play this game very well, especially when the opponent was so pleasing to look at. Turning back to Chatwin, he asked, “Do you only pretend to fight, Count Chatwin, or do you wage real war as well?”

Crossing his arm, Chatwin replied, with no small amount of swagger, “I am leader of the Free Companies. My army is in northern Fillory. For the moment.” Eliot already knew that, but allowing Chatwin a moment to brag allowed him to feel that he had the upper hand in the conversation. He settled into his seat, preparing himself to be wooed.

* * *

Across the arena, Quentin and Josh approached. The blacksmith (who they learned was named Alice Quinn) had done a rather amazing job on Quentin’s armor. It looked almost as good as before it broke, even if it was still showing its age. It was even heavier now, with the modifications Alice had made to repair it, but it only made Quentin stronger, he supposed. Quentin surveyed the crowd, and his heart leapt as he finally saw Eliot in the royal box. He looked utterly ravishing, if a little bored. Quentin knew he had to talk to him, to say something before the event began. He had no way of knowing if their paths would cross again. “Josh!” Quentin said. “There he is. The man I told you about.”

Normally Quentin only confided in Julia, but something about Josh had drawn it out of him. The man had been so naked, in so many ways, in front of him, that he felt a kinship with him. The evening before, Josh had insisted on sharing some wine he’d somehow gotten a hold of with Quentin, as a thank you for helping him.It felt easy to unburden himself to Josh, and with the help of a few drinks, Josh had heard all about Quentin’s encounter with the handsome lord.

Josh peered across the stadium to Quentin’s paramour. “Oh Jesus, Quentin,” he said, once he realized who Quentin was referring to. “You aim too high.”

“I know, that’s unusual for me. But it seems to be working out lately, so why not give it a shot,” Quentin replied, never taking his eyes off Eliot.

Kady and Julia arrived behind the pair, with Saxon trailing behind them. “Concentrate,” Kady admonished, overhearing them.

Julia smiled at her. “It’s nice to see Quentin infatuated with someone. It’s a rarity.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need him distracted by getting his dick wet when our lives are on the line,” Kady snarked back.

Ignoring them, Quentin turned to Josh. “What should I say to him?”

Thinking hard for a moment, Josh drew Quentin close and whispered in his ear.

* * *

In the stands, Eliot scanned the grounds. “What do you think of the joust?” Chatwin asked Eliot, still standing near him and Margo.

“It’s very... abrupt,” Eliot replied. Chatwin chuckled. “While I’m never one to pass up the chance to see a man play with a big stick, I’m afraid I don’t understand the rules.” This was the part of this song and dance that Eliot liked the least. He was expected to play the role of the delicate flower, looking up to the strong man to help lead him to his future. While it was true that Eliot didn’t know the rules of the joust, he well could learn them if he gave a shit. His gut was already telling him that Chatwin wanted the prestige and respect that came along with his family name, and he couldn’t care less about what Eliot actually thought. But since he was a general in the Fillorian army, albeit not a very a good one, from what Eliot had heard, he had to play his role accordingly and at least try to make sure no one’s delicate feelings were hurt. But he could do it with his certain Eliot flair.

“Then I shall educate you,” Chatwin said, taking the bait and sitting down next to Eliot. Eliot shifted just a smidge closer to Margo.

With an air of confidence that leaned more towards arrogance, Chatwin continued, “A match is three lances. One point is awarded for breaking a lance between the waist and the neck. Two points for breaking on the helmet.” Chatwin leaned a bit more into Eliot’s space, ticking off the scenarios on his fingers. “It's difficult. The helmet sweeps back… most blows glance off, leaving the lance unbroken. Three points for bearing a rider to the ground. Also, should you bear a rider to the ground, you win his horse.”

Meeting the Count’s eyes, Eliot asked seriously, eyes wide, “And do men die in the joust?” Margo kept her eyes straight ahead, observing the arena in front of them.

“Lance points are tipped with coronals, which blunts them. Of course, accidents happen,” Chatwin replied, with a cheeky smile. Focusing intently on Eliot, he continued, “I myself, Eliot, have never been unhorsed.”

A sweet smile on his face, Eliot replied, “Nor have I.” He could hear Margo stifle a groan next to him.

As that comment hung in the air, a figure cantered up to the stands on horseback. Eliot’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the man that had occupied his thoughts for the past few days. He appeared to be as eager to see Eliot as he was to see him, and he stopped his horse directly in front of their seats. He was in full armor, save his helmet, meaning he was a noble - likely a knight. Eliot couldn’t suppress the smile that graced his face. He was even prettier than Eliot remember - strong and tall in his saddle, long fingers clutching his reins, and strong thighs that would have been better served wrapped around Eliot instead of a horse.

“Your name, my lord,” Quentin called up to him. “I still need to hear it.”

Eliot leaned forward in his seat, “Sir Hunter, you persist,” he teased, pleased.

Quentin took a beat, and continued, “Perhaps angels have no names. Only beautiful faces.”

While Eliot’s smile seemed to only grow brighter, Count Chatwin was not amused. He rolled his eyes, glaring down at the knight. “And you are?” he asked.

Quentin’s smile faltered for a bit as his gaze moved from Eliot to Count Chatwin. “Well, I am, um-”

“Have you forgotten?” Chatwin briskly replied. “Or your name is Sir ‘Um.’” His herald, and a few within earshot, tittered.

 _Well, this is an interesting turn,_ Eliot thought. Having two handsome men in a pissing match in front of him was a new experience, even for him. He liked it.

Quentin centered himself, caught Eliot’s eye again, and replied, “Ulrich von Lichtenstein from Gelderland.”

Chatwin let out a small chuckle. “I'd forget as well. What a mouthful.” Inspecting Quentin from his spot next to Eliot, he continued, “Your armor, sir.”

Eyes narrowing, Quentin asked, “What about it?”

“Well, how stylish of you to joust in an antique. You'll start a new fashion if you win. My grandfather will be able to wear his in public again,” Chatwin said, a smirk on his face. His herald smiled broadly as more giggles were heard in the vicinity.

Eliot exchanged a look with Margo. While he was royalty, he was far from the family favorite. He’d had his fair share of feeling worthless, and he didn’t like seeing that feeling inflicted on anyone in his favor.

Quentin glanced down at his chest piece, repaired but still displaying pock marks and discoloration from use. His mouth opened and shut as he tried to form a response.

“And a shield,” Chatwin added, going in to strike again. “How quaint.” Turning to Eliot, he commented, “Some of these poor country knights, little better than peasants.”

* * *

Eliot’s smile had faded from his face at this point. Quentin looked to him, dismayed to see what he felt was happiness at seeing him replaced with a sort of pity. _Stupid, stupid,_ Quentin thought as he nodded once at Eliot, and then swiftly reined his horse back to his squires.

“How did it go?” Josh asked as Quentin led Saxon to his starting position.

“You were right,” Quentin said, staring straight ahead. “I aimed too high.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are staring to get juicy. There are a few references to Earth religion and other pieces of Earth history/culture; this is set in Fillory, but let's not think too hard on it.

Josh had done well as Quentin’s herald, but he had something grander in mind right now. He looked at Quentin, who was trying, and failing, not to sulk over whatever had just happened across the arena. Noting that the expression currently on Eliot’s face wasn’t quite one of being enthralled by Count Chatwin, Josh knew a way he could ensure Quentin captured his attention. He did owe him, after all. A few times over.

The opponent’s herald was currently completing his introduction. The job of the herald was to inform the spectators of their lord - build up their goodwill, make the crowd want him to win. When a contestant had the crowd with him, it could make even the weakest knight compete like a champion. “The second son of Sir Wallace Percival, third Earl of Warwick.” The herald (Josh thought his name was Brian? Isaac? Something boring.) was standing directly in front of the royal box, spending no time addressing the many other spectators in the arena. His voice was clear, projecting into the crowd. Josh was sure he did his job consistently well. “My lords, my ladies, it is with honor I introduce my liege - Sir Thomas Colville.” The herald concluded his introduction and gave a slight bow to the royal suite. He received polite applause. Pity for him that Josh was about to completely steal any goodwill he’d built up for his liege.

Applauding with the crowd as Brian/Isaac took his leave, Josh told him “You're good. You're very good,” as he took his place in the middle of the arena. Josh strolled to where the former herald had been delivering his address, faced the royal box, and, ensuring he had the attention of Eliot in particular, began speaking, projecting his voice for all to hear. “My lords! My ladies.” He gave a bow to those seated in front of him.

And then, turning away from the royal box and opening his arms to the rest of the audience - “And everybody else here NOT sitting on a cushion!” The crowd cheered approvingly. Julia, Kady, and Quentin looked at each other, wondering what Josh had up his sleeve.

“Today, today, you find yourselves equals.” Eliot sported a small smile at this, while a few other lords and ladies in the royal box exchanged wry glances.

Josh had the eyes of every person in attendance. He moved around the arena, commanding the attention of all involved.

“For you are all equally blessed. For I have the pride, the privilege - nay - the pleasure of introducing to you a Knight, sired by Knights. A knight who can trace his lineage back beyond Charlemagne.” At this, Kady and Julia looked at each other nervously.

“I first met him atop a mountain near Aubernia, praying to God, asking his forgiveness, for the enemy blood spilt by his sword. Next, he amazed me still further in Wimborne when he saved a fatherless beauty from the would-be ravishings of her dreadful Lorian uncle!” The crowd hissed and booed - Loria was not held in the best graces in the greater Fillory.

Josh’s voice lowered an octave, and the crowd seemed to collectively hold their breath to better hear his next words. “Near the Wellspring, he spent a year in silence... just to better understand the sound... of a whisper.” Putting his fingers to his lips, Josh savored the moment.

* * *

Eliot found himself captivated by the tale being woven in front of him - it was all most likely bullshit, but nevertheless, he knew there was something special about Sir Ulrich... and the embers smoldering within were being slowly stoked to a warmer flame. Looking over to Margo, he could see that she appeared just as enthralled as he was. Quickly glancing to Count Chatwin, Eliot noted that he seemed… less than pleased.

* * *

His voice back at full volume, Josh continued, “And so, without further gilding the lily, and with no more ado, I give to you the Seeker of Serenity, the Protector of Fillorian virginity, the Enforcer of our Lord God, the One—the Only—Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein!!!” Josh dragged out his name, ending with a grand gesture to Quentin, who sat, looking rather dumbfounded, atop his horse. After a moment, he gave a rather dainty wave to the crowd.

The spectators roared, a few jumping to their feet in applause. Eliot and Margo smiled and applauded, as Count Chatwin sat in silence. Eventually he put his hands together for a few meager claps. Josh waved and smiled as he made his way over to his party. “Thank you! Thank you! I’ll be here all week!”

“That was different,” Julia told Josh as he joined them. 

“Well, it’s time we celebrated our differences,” Josh said, adjusting Saxon’s reins. 

“Just… maybe not in public,” Julia said, turning away to finish readying the horse.

Quentin placed his visor on his head. Josh stepped closer to him. “Now, I got their attention. You go and win their hearts.”

Quentin nodded, swallowing any thoughts of the disaster that occurred just moments before. He had a joust to win.

* * *

In the first run, Quentin broke his lance on Sir Corville’s torso, earning him a point. As his horse cantered back to his starting point, Josh approached. “Very good!” he complimented.

Unable to stop the words from busting out of his mouth, Quentin asked, “Was he watching?” At no response, “JOSH.”

“What?” Josh asked, helping lead Saxon back to his place.

“Did he see me??” Quentin asked again. 

“Yes, he saw you,” Josh replied, shrugging.

“Did he see me take the hit?” Quentin asked, mildly infuriated with Josh’s lack of detail.

“Yes, he saw you take the hit,” Josh responded again.

“Well was he concerned?”

“Yes, it was dreadful. His eyes welled up. It was awful.”

* * *

On his second pass, Quentin again broke his lance on Sir Colville with a hard hit right to his sternum. He also took a hard blow to the face that sent him lolling back in his saddle. He stayed on his horse, who delivered him back to his party.

Count Chatwin remained next to Eliot, making idle chatter. Eliot watched Sir Ulrich in action, finding himself worried after his last pass. “Calm down, dear,” Margo whispered, as she pried Eliot’s hand off her forearm, where it held her in a vice grip. “I’m sure his pretty little face is just fine.”

Eliot immediately released her arm, sitting up straighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered to her out the side of his mouth.

Count Chatwin started speaking, making Eliot almost miss Margo’s little “mmhmm” she murmured in response. “Colville has perfect technique. I’ve never seen him before.”

His herald, whom Eliot had learned was named Tick, replied, “Nor I. But this Lichtenstein... his technique, rudimentary. Style, nonexistent. Still, he’s fearless.”

Unable to resist, Eliot asked, “Fearless? How so?”

Chatwin explained, “The slit in a helmet’s visor is narrow, but splinters can penetrate it. Most knights raise their chins at the last instant. You lose sight of your opponent, but you protect your eyes. This Ulrich doesn’t.”

Eliot ran that around in his head. “He keeps his eye on the target.” Leaning his head to Margo, “A true hunter,” he said. Margo hummed in response.

* * *

Down in the arena, Quentin noticed Sir Colville slowly trotting his steed down the center. He arched his head in Quentin’s direction. Quentin directed Saxon down his side of the barrier in the middle, meeting Sir Colville in the center of the arena.

The two men raised their visors, revealing their faces to each other. Sir Colville was a handsome man, with bright, straight teeth (not common in knights), a strong jaw, and hard, but kind eyes. A face one would not easily forget. “Sir Ulrich,” he began, his breathing labored, “... I’m through.” He took another slow breath. “But I’ve never not finished before. I wish to keep my honor intact.”

Quentin understood the ask. Currently the match was tied - each with one point. Quentin could insist upon another round, possibly unhorse Sir Colville, win and claim his steed as his own. If his condition was as bad as it looked, he most likely lacked the strength to even steady his lance. They could sell the horse - the extra money would go far with more materials, food for his party and his horses, and a softer bedroll.

As he looked into Colville’s eyes though, Quentin remembered what it meant to be a knight. Bravery, courtesy, and honor towards all others - this is what Quentin strode to embody ever since he was a little boy. A knight did not act selfishly, and he showed mercy. Making his decision, Quentin nodded. Giving him a relieved smile, Colville nodded back.

The two men returned to their starting positions. This time, when the flag flew to begin the round, both men slowly galloped towards each other, each on one side of the low barrier in the middle of the arena. As they approached, lances out, they each pointed the tip towards the sky and passed each other. Each refusing to hit, each scoring no points.

The crowd reacted audibly. From the stands, Tick and Chatwin watched Colville’s squires help him off his horse, and they could see how slowly Colville moved. One of his squires moved to the officials box, and hung a white flag over his shield, the signal for withdrawing from the bout.

“A draw,” Tick said to Chatwin. “And Colville is hurt.”

“Colville withdraws. Ulrich advances,” Chatwin said. “Why didn’t Ulrich finish him?” Chatwin asked, his confusion evident. His tone indicated he did not think Ulrich’s decision was wise.

Eliot kept his eyes on Sir Ulrich as he left the arena with his party. “He shows mercy,” he said softly, puzzling out this man in his head. He was certainly different from any knight he’d ever met before.

Scoffing, Chatwin replied, “Then he shows his weakness. That’s all mercy is.”

 _Well thank you for that charming insight into what life with you could be like_ , Eliot thought. He was still staring after the exit where Quentin departed.

* * *

Later that night, Quentin and his friends were gathered in their tent, attempting to rest before their next busy day. The night was clear, and the footfalls of guards patrolling and other travelers settling in for the night could be heard outside their shelter.

Quentin often suffered from insomnia, but this past week he had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit his bedroll, so exhausted from his long days that his mind forgot to deprive him of rest. Tonight, however, sleep refused to take him under. His mind kept wandering back to Eliot. Even after that disastrous conversation, Quentin had seen Eliot watching him as he left the arena. He could feel the heat of Eliot’s gaze in every moment of the joust, and he could not help but hope that he still had a chance to prove his worth.

 _What worth?_ That little voice in Quentin’s mind became a little louder, and Quentin heaved a deep sigh as he actively reminded himself that he had a chance to have a real destiny. His father gave him up so he could see it through. He deserved this happiness and more.

“For the love of victory, Quentin, go to sleep,” Julia said, turning over on her side. Tucking herself into Kady’s back, Julia snuggled closer to her.

“I can’t,” Quentin confessed. “I just can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t explain it. He makes me feel… “ Quentin grasped at words that made him sound mad. _Like I’m flying? Like I’m maybe worth something?_ “Like I’m a poet,” he finished lamely.

“You may feel like a poet, but you sound like an idiot,” Kady sleepily responded, pulling Julia’s arm over her waist.

“You don’t even know his name,” Julia pointed out.

“His name?” Quentin responded. “His name is Adonis. Aphrodite. Venus. Take your pick.”

Sighing, Julia picked up her head and looked at Quentin. “Q. I am absolutely delighted to finally see you falling in love. But right now, your timing kind of sucks. That kind of man? He weakens your heart. Without your heart, you cannot win. You have to focus.” Laying her head back down, Julia nestled her face in Kady’s hair.

Quentin laid in silence for a moment, his hand over his heart. “But his eyes-”

“Concentrate!” Julia bit out. 

Flinging her pillow at Quentin, Kady said “Shut the fuck up! Go to sleep or I’ll cut your vocal cords.”

“Yes, Kady,” Quentin replied, rolling over on his side. He closed his eyes, but still only saw warm streaks of hazel.

* * *

That same night, Eliot was in his bedchamber, readying for sleep. The guest chambers were very nice here, with a large, soft bed and elegant furnishings. Candles were placed around the room, giving it a soft glow. Most of Eliot’s political work was done, and he could look forward to the upcoming ball and then a trip home. Eliot wore his dressing gown, pacing, his hands folding and refolding the lavender silk handkerchief he had worn with his suit that day, his mind wandering through the day's events.

Margo entered the room, interrupting his musings. She also wore a dressing gown. Her bedchamber was in the room adjacent to Eliot, the two never far from each other. “Count Chatwin sends word,” she said, coming to a stop a few paces away. “He says he will win this tournament for you.”

Turning to face Margo, Eliot smirked. “He’s won many tournaments. He wins them for himself and his own honor. It’s nothing to say he wins them for me.”

“Apparently he liked what he saw today. He wishes to speak to you again,” Margo said, taking a seat on the chest at the foot of the bed. 

“Not to hear a word I say,” Eliot said, sitting down next to Margo. “Chatwin wants his partner silent.”

“God knows that’s not you,” Margo commented, plucking a grape off the platter of fruit left in the room. “So tell me, dear. Would you have sweet little Sir Ulrich win the tournament for you?”

“No,” Eliot replied quickly, standing up and taking a step towards the window. Turning back to Margo, he continued, “And he is the only knight that has not promised to do so.”

“Of course you want the one that doesn’t fall at your feet. You never could do things the easy way,” Margo teased.

His mind seemingly in the stars, Eliot had a soft smile on his face. Mentally giving himself a shake, his smile turned into a smirk as he said, “Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein. You know, if I was the type to say these kinds of things, I would say that I would have him win my heart.” 

Margo smirked back at him. “Well, good thing you’re not that sentimental.”

* * *

The next day, Quentin and his party gathered at the joust arena, readying to compete against Count Chatwin. Quentin’s nerves were a bit shot - Chatwin was an intimidating opponent on any day, and after yesterday, his desire to bear him to the ground was almost overwhelming.

The man in question entered the arena, preceded by his stout herald, who was holding a flag with his house crest on it. He made quite a fierce portrait- his horse was black as night, outfitted in sleek black armor. Count Chatwin himself had matching armor, and his squires (he had six or seven) followed his horse as the crowd chanted “Chatwin! Chatwin!” 

“Oh, lovely,” Kady said as he entered, a grimace on her face. 

Quentin leaned over to Julia, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose.”

“No, but defeat him, and you’ll see it firsthand,” Julia said, turning to Quentin and adjusting the strap on his shoulder plate. 

Josh approached, followed by a very beautiful woman - the one who had sat by Eliot’s side the day before during his joust. “My liege,” Josh said in greeting. Quentin was still watching Count Chatwin ready his horse. “Sir Ulrich!” Josh said again, rapping on Quentin’s chestplate. Quentin started in surprise. Guestering to the woman next to him, he introduced, “Margo.”

Margo gave a stunning smile to the group. After a bit of a lingering look at Julia, she handed a silk lavender handkerchief to Quentin. “My lord bids you wear this token,” she said.

Mouth opening and closing, Quentin said, “Of - of course!” as he took the handkerchief. 

Margo continued, “He also said to tell you, his name... “ Kady, Julia, Quentin and Josh all leaned in “... is Eliot.”

“Eliot,” Quentin whispered to himself, almost in awe. 

Margo went to take her leave. “Good luck,” she said, walking back to the royal box, her long skirt flowing behind her, accentuating the sway of her hips with every step.

Julia watched Margo go, her mouth a bit agape. Josh smiled at the group, and then leaned over and pushed up on Julia’s chin, closing her mouth. Glaring at Josh, Julia turned to Quentin, who was most certainly not putting his game face on … he looked more like he had little cartoon birds flying around his head. “Concentrate!” Julia scolded, walking over to Saxon.

Smiling, Quentin held the soft lavender cloth to his face and took a deep inhale. The soft, musky scent filled his head and his heart.

* * *

Quentin moved Saxon into starting position, attempting to remove Eliot out of his brain, and focus on the bout. Kady handed him his lance, and he patted his armor, ensuring it was tightly attached. Eliot’s token was securely wrapped around the back of his helmet, flowing in the wind.

Across the arena, Chatwin was going through the same preparations. Both men were fully outfitted, on their steeds, and anxious to go. Saxon could feel the tension in the air, and he jostled Quentin a bit on his back. 

Eliot watched from the stands, Margo by his side. He could see his handkerchief waving in the wind behind Quentin, and he was pleased.

The flag raised, and both men steamed forward. Strong arms, solid holds on the lances, and both struck their target when they met in the middle. 

Eliot flinched at the impact, grabbing hold of Margo’s hand. He wasn’t expecting to feel that sharp pain in his gut at the possibility of Quentin getting hurt, but there it was.

Quentin and Chatwin both lolled back on their horses from the blow. Kady and Julia cheered, as did the crowd. One point was awarded to each.

Julia, Kady, and Josh met Saxon and guided him back to his side of the arena. Quentin was gasping loudly. “I can’t breathe,” he said, pitching forward slightly in his saddle.

A similar scenario was transpiring on the other side of the arena. Chatwin shoved up his visor, his face red as he gasped for breath. A squire reached up under the gap between his chest plate and the armor covering his arm - and pulled out a large, sharp piece of wood, wet with blood. “No style whatsoever,” Chatwin said, in between deep breaths. “But neither has an anvil.”

Quentin leaned a hand up against a side of the audience stands. “He hits like a hammer. It’s amazing.”

“But not perfect,” Julia said. “He aims high on your chest. Roll your shoulder back when you strike, his blow may glance to your right.”

“If he strikes me on the right. But if he strikes to my left, I’ll be obliterated!” Quentin responded.

“Well, I didn’t say it wasn’t a gamble.”

Round two went in Quentin’s favor. Following Julia’s advice, he got a solid strike on Chatwin’s chest, while dodging Chatwin’s own hit. The score was now two to one.

Eliot smiled and clapped, almost jumping up in excitement before he felt Margo’s hand keeping him down. “Keep your ass in this seat,” she whispered. “You do not let the entire world know where your loyalties lie.” Remembering himself, Eliot cleared his throat and gave a show of demure applause.

Under the raised spectator platform, standing with the peasants, Alice Quinn watched with a pleased smile on her face.

Chatwin returned back to his side, threw up his visor, and glared up at his unbroken lance. The crowd chanted, “Ulrich! Ulrich!” Chatwin thrust his visor back into place and moved into starting position.

Quentin smiled behind his helmet as he waited for the final flag to start the round. He felt unstoppable. He had Chatwin, he knew it. Another two minutes and it would be over, with Quentin as the victor.

The flag had barely begun to move when Chatwin came blazing onto the straightaway. Quentin spurred his house into a gallop. As they bared down on each other, Quentin rolled his shoulder, the same move again that had worked successfully before.

Chatwin was prepared, though. At the last moment, his lance bared down on the opposite side, and Quentin actually moved into Chatwin’s blow. The lance rode up Quentin’s chest armor and blasted his face, ripping his helmet from his head.

Quentin’s world went white; it was as if he was floating. Perhaps he was. His mind flashed to a distant memory… when he was a small child... 

_He was running and dodging through the legs of strangers to get a look at the parade of incoming knights. He could hear his dad’s voice ahead, calling his name… he chased it, pushing forward until he found his father._

_“Quentin! Here!” His dad picked him up, standing him on a wooden structure. Looking down, Quentin realized he was standing on top of the stocks, which were occupied with an unfortunate soul at the moment._

_From here, he could see everything! All the shops in the village, the apartments where he and his friends lived. The forest, and maybe even the pond! What caught his attention though, were the knights on horseback, parading through town on the way to tournament. In full armor, their horses fully dressed in their house colors, Quentin had never seen anything so fantastic._

_“Someday,” Quentin said to his father, “I’ll be a knight.”_

_The man in the stocks below Quentin began to bellow in laughter. “A Coldwater’s son? A knight? You might as well try to change the stars.”_

_Ted Coldwater looked down at the man in the stocks and frowned._

_“Can it be done, father?” Quentin asked. “Can a man change the stars?”_

_Ted looked up at his son. Ever since his mother died years ago, Ted had wanted only for his son to be happy. Looking into his soft brown eyes, Ted said to Quentin. “Yes, Quentin. If he believes enough, a man can do anything.” The whole world was reflected in his eyes - how much his father wanted for him to realize his dreams and potential._

_Quentin smiled happily at his father and went back to watching the knights. Ted smiled softly, almost sadly, and turned to watch the parade as well._

Quentin slowly came back to himself. The sun beat down on him as he was jostled around on his horse. His horse... he had stayed on his horse. His helmet was gone, but he seemed to still have all of his body parts. His feet were secured in the stirrups, the only thing that kept him on horseback still. His upper body laid back against the horse, dead weight, as Saxon trotted in a small circle, panicked.

Julia and Kady ran across the track to Quentin, Julia attempting to calm Saxon. “Whoa, whoa,” she whispered, arms out as she approached. Saxon gave a slight whine as Julia took his reins. Kady reached up, calling to Quentin as she attempted to steady him.

Across the arena, Chatwin smiled under his visor. His steed trotted, almost pranced in victory. Chatwin steered him towards where Quentin’s fallen helmet lay. Beside it was the silk token.

Reaching down with his broken lance, Chatwin hooked the cloth on the broken tip. He trotted over to where Quentin was now sitting upright on his horse, under his own power. He stopped his horse a few feet away, and lifted the visor on his helmet.

Lifting his lance straight up, the lavender token blowing in the wind, he said to Quentin, “Gain more bearing, Ulrich. See me again when you’re worthy.” Without another glance, he turned his horse in the direction of the stands.

Kady glared at Chatwin as he galloped away. Murder in her eyes, she reached underneath her shirt for her knife as she stalked in his direction. Quickly, Josh appeared and grabbed and turned her by the shoulders, directing her back to Quentin. “Well done, my lord! Well done,” he called after Chatwin’s retreating form.

Kady turned her ire on Josh. “You asshole-”

“Go and see to Ulrich,” Josh said commandingly. Kady paused, seething. “Go and see to Ulrich,” he said again, his eyes begging her to listen. Gritting her teeth, Kady gave one last scathing look to Chatwin, before placing her knife back in it’s sheath and returning back to Quentin. 

“He is lucky I can’t smite his ass here,” she muttered under her breath.

“Well done, my lord,” Josh called again, clapping. “A noble victory.”

* * *

Count Chatwin approached the royal box, where Eliot and Margo sat. Eliot was stone faced, sitting straight up and watching Sir Ulrich as close as he dared. The depth of his reaction at truly seeing, for the first time, the danger Sir Ulrich placed himself in every time he jousted shocked him. He had barely exchanged two sentences with this knight, but it seemed he had already secured a prominent place in Eliot’s heart. How it had happened, so fast, Eliot had no idea. But he already felt eternally grateful just for the few moments they already had together.

Margo nudged his arm and jutted her chin directly in front of them. Count Chatwin was within a few feet of the stands, his lance still holding the token that Margo had delivered to Sir Ulrich earlier. Eliot attempted to keep the anger he felt from showing on his face, but he knew his eyes betrayed him. Count Chatwin met his eyes as he stopped in front of his box.

“My lord, I believe this is yours,” he said, as he held out his lance, putting the silk fabric in Eliot’s reach. Eliot took the token, spun on his heel, and walked away without a word. Margo, a scowl on her pretty face, glared at Count Chatwin, and then followed.

* * *

Outside of the arena, Julia had performed a few healing tuts on Quentin. The throb in his temple receded, and his mind cleared a bit. He had let his arrogance get the better of him against Chatwin. He knew better than to let himself believe in good favor, to let overconfidence overtake him. A mistake he would not make again.

Quentin now stood in a line with three other knights, including Count Chatwin, for the awards ceremony. He had reigned supreme in sword and Welter’s, but it still was not enough for tournament champion. One had to prevail in the joust, and only the joust, for that award. His party would still receive a grand prize, enough to fund them until the next tournament and possibly beyond. But for Quentin, it was nowhere near enough.

The local lord’s herald called out the winners. “For long spear on foot… Pandolfo Malatesta.” The knight to Quentin’s right stepped forward, and received a shiny gold box. Bowing his head in thanks, he moved back in line.

“For Welter’s and sword on foot, Ulrich von Lichtenstein.” The crowd cheered, Julia, Kady, and Josh loudest of all. Chatwin’s squire, Tick, gave a few half-hearted claps. Quentin, his lips in a tight line, bowed and received his prize - a golden statue of a knight on horseback. It was heavy in his hands, and would fetch a nice price.

The herald continued, “And finally, for the mounted joust and tournament champion… Chatwin, Count of Anjour.” Chatwin stepped forward to receive his prize. Tick applauded enthusiastically, while Josh clapped politely. Julia gave a few claps out of respect, and Kady stood there, her arms crossed, her eyes seemingly attempting to burn Chatwin where he stood.

Chatwin bowed and took his award, a golden statue in the shape of a chestplate. The herald turned to the royal box, “I present to you, your champions!”

The four knights smiled and waved at the crowd, including Quentin. As he waved, he muttered to Chatwin, out of the corner of his mouth, “Next time I face you, Count Chatwin, you will look up at me from the flat of your back.” He flashed a small smile to the crowd.

“Please,” Chatwin responded, keeping a pleasant expression on his face. “You have been weighed, you have been measured... and you have been found wanting.” He then turned from Quentin and walked away.

Quentin’s smile fell from his face as he also turned away from the award stage and walked towards his party. Josh ran up to Quentin, jumping and giving a celebratory hug of the shoulders. Julia was smiling as well, congratulating Quentin and ignoring his scowl. Kady was... not frowning. “Keep winning the sword or Welter’s and we’ll be rich!”

“I won’t compete in them again,” Quentin stated flatly, his feet moving back to their tent.

Josh turned sharply at his words, while the smile dropped off Julia’s face. Kady rolled her eyes. “They’re your best events!” Josh protested.

“No,” Quentin said. “It’s tournament champion or nothing at all.” His friends quarreled with him all the way back to the tent area.

* * *

Quentin, using Simon's axe, sheared off a piece of his solid gold tournament prize - the top half of a knight sitting on the horse. Now the statue was only a golden horse, with an empty set of legs in the saddle. Tossing the golden torso to Simon, who was standing next to Peter, Quentin said, “Ten florins. That should do.” With a final look at the two greasy men, Quentin turned to Josh, who was watching the exchange with grateful eyes.

They were in the merchant and participant tent area, where most were beginning to pack up. The last official event of the tournament was a grand ball, where all contestants were invited to celebrate the past week with music, dancing, and merriment. Despite a lofty win at this first tournament, Quentin couldn’t shake the feeling that he could have, _should have_ done better. They had successfully falsified a knight, gone almost undefeated in three events, and made enough money to feed and clothe them for months… but Quentin still felt that wasn’t good enough. He felt in an endless cycle - even as he set and reached his goals, still more appeared on the horizon. 

Simon broke into his thoughts, saying to Josh, “It’s sixes and sevens tonight, Hoberman. Do you feel lucky?” Peter stood next to him, examining the little golden knight, almost fondling the little golden lance he held in his hand. “Do you wear enough clothes,” Peter added, smirking.

Rolling his eyes as he turned away, “Go on, be gone. I’m done with you,” Josh told them. The pair turned away, but Josh stopped them with “Except to exact my revenge.”

Peter and Simon turned back to the group, and to Josh particularly. “What on Fillory could you possibly do to us?” Peter asked.

Josh, towering over Peter, approached and said, “I will eviscerate you in fiction. Every last pimple, every last character flaw. I was naked for a day. You will be naked for eternity.” Peter started giggling at the pleased expression on Josh’s face. Simon told Josh, “I have a feeling we shall meet again.” With that, Simon and Peter took their leave, Peter chortling the entire way.

The blacksmith who had fixed his armor met up with Quentin near his tent. “Here, Alice,” he said, handing her what was left of the golden statue. “Take what we owe you.”

Alice looked down at the trophy, and then back up to Quentin. She swallowed, eyes moving back and forth, and then said to him, “The armor you wear. It wasn’t - it wasn’t made for you, was it?”

Quentin’s guard automatically went up. They had a successful week, but that didn’t mean it could be thwarted, even now. He crossed his arm and stood up straighter. Attempting his most intimidating look, he told Alice, “So? What of it?”

Alice’s wide blue eyes looked into his. She was covered in soot and grime, her brown leather blacksmith apron contrasting with her blond hair, which was twisted into a braid on the side of her head - Quentin could see how beautiful she was under all that dirt. “I could make such armor you wouldn’t even know you wore it,” she said.

“And how much would that cost me?” Quentin asked, determined not to be deterred by a pretty face.

“Just take me as far as Coria,” she said, referring to one of the larger cities where a tournament would be held later in the season. 

Quentin considered it. She was very handy, and a new set of armor would set him apart from the field… but he couldn’t afford to have another person privy to his secret. The odds of them keeping up the charade as they traveled was slim. The more who knew, the better the chance that it would get out. And the better the chance they would be punished.

“We travel alone. Take your gold and go.” Quentin was not normally so short, but this was the part he had to play. He could hear a puff of protest from Julia, behind him.

Frowning, Alice took the horse and broke off a leg by slamming it against a nearby cart. Without looking at Quentin, she threw the main figure back to him, and stalked off with her share.

Quentin turned to Julia, and tossed the statue to her. “Get what you can out of that. The rest of us will pack camp,” he declared, as he started to gather his belongings.

Kady, her mouth full of turkey she had procured as soon as the events were over, asked “Why are we leaving so soon?” She had been looking forward to a couple of days of lazing about, enjoying her portion of her winnings, and some alone time with Julia.

Frustrated, Quentin said, “The tournament in Black Hallow starts in a week. If we leave now, we can walk most of the way and save the horses.” He punctuated his sentence by tossing a spare saddle onto the cart.

“No,” Josh said, grabbing the saddle off the cart and tossing it on the ground. “You have to go to the banquet tonight. You have to dance. You have to make an appearance.”

“Oh, and have Chatwin laugh at me again? No!” Quentin picked up the saddle, and again tossed it on to the cart.

Someone caught Julia’s eye, and she stiffened. Approaching them was Margo, Lord Eliot’s handmaiden. Still as beautiful as the first time she’d seen her, part of Margo’s long hair was pushed back with an intricate braid, the rest of her long dark locks flowing behind her as she walked. Though her dress was simple, a royal blue sheath that clung to every curve, Julia got the impression that nothing about her was simple.

Margo came to a stop, a few paces in front of Julia. She looked behind Julia’s shoulder, where Quentin and Josh continued their argument. Julia could hear the saddle being thrown around as Josh’s repeated “YES!” was met with an equally fervent “NO!” from Quentin. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Julia cleared her throat loudly.

Finally, the air grew silent as the two men finally noticed that Margo had joined them. A smirk on her face, Margo told Julia, “My lord would know the color of your lord’s tunic tonight.”

Julia’s face went blank. “His tunic?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Margo said. There was a significant pause. When the confusion didn’t clear, Margo continued, “So she can dress to match him?” Her eyebrows were raised in surprise that they apparently didn’t know that balls called for matching outfits.

Josh stepped in. “We regret to inform your lord that he won’t be attending -”

Quentin sprung forward, surging in front of Josh. “Herald, do not answer questions you do not know the answer to!” 

Immediately Josh stepped back. “Absolutely, my lord.” Hovering near Quentin, Kady hid a smirk behind her hand.

Turning to Julia, Quentin said, “Squire, answer her. What, uh, color is my tunic tonight?” His hands moved in odd gestures as he spoke, and then he placed them firmly behind his back and looked expectantly at Julia.

Julia, for her part, was not prepared. Her eyes wide, she looked from Quentin, to Margo, and back again. Margo raised an eyebrow at the pair, patiently waiting for an answer. Although Julia was sure she was about to start tapping her finely outfitted toe anytime now.

“Well, uh …” Julia focused on the tent set up behind Margo. It had lightweight fabric, perfect for the balmy weather. It was dark blue, with a gold trim. The catches to hold it shut were rectangular and wooden. “Blue. Dark blue. Um… trimmed in a kind of... gold… Uh… with… wooden toggles,” she finished, focusing on Margo. 

“Uh huh,” Margo replied, amusement in her eyes. Nodding at Julia, she continued, “I will tell my lord.” With a final bow to Quentin, she turned and left. Four pairs of eyes followed her the entire way.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Quentin let out a loud groan. "This is a disaster!” He ran his hands through his hair, blowing air out through his cheeks.

“No, it’ll be ok,” Julia said. “I can work with this, “ she continued as she ran her fingers over the fabric from the tent. “Give me your knife, Kady.”

“No, Julia… that’s not a disaster,” Quentin continued, flopping down on an open spot in the cart. He looked up at Josh, then back down at the ground. “I don’t know how to dance.”

* * *

Eliot paced in his bed chambers, twirling the lavender handkerchief through his fingers. Margo had left ages ago, she should have been back by now. He needed to pick out his outfit, which would play into how he would style his hair, and dear god where was his flask ...

Finally the door opened, and Margo came striding in. Shutting it behind her, she went directly to the wine bottle sitting on a nearby table and poured herself a glass. She had a few large sips before Eliot’s impatience got the better of him. 

“Well??” he demanded as she took another sip.

“Oh? I’m sorry. Did I take too long asking the cute little knight down the street if he wanted to go steady? It’s not easy walking across a fucking field in these shoes, Eliot.”

Eliot sighed, and gave Margo a smile. “Of course, thank you, Bambi, for always going above and beyond for me. You know I’d walk a mile in your shoes any day.”

Margo smiled back. “That’s more like it. And to be honest, I ran into this hot blonde blacksmith… something about a girl in a leather apron just does it for me."

“I'm happy for you, Margo. Thrilled. Really. Now what is he wearing?” Eliot asked again.

“Dark blue. With gold trim. Remarkably similar to his tents.”

Eliot frowned at that, and then pushed it away. He could work with that. “Ok. Ok. I have the dark brown vest that almost looks like it’s dusted in gold… I can wear that with the dark blue button-down.. tie or no tie?” He started rummaging through his wardrobe, although most of its contents were already strewn about the chambers.

“I gotta tell you, El, there’s something weird about that bunch.” Margo watched Eliot hold up a few shirts to his chest, muttering to himself in front of the mirror. Did he even have that many blue shirts?

“How do you mean?” Eliot asked, setting one aside. He perused his wardrobe again.

“Well, number one, they are definitely country people. Oddly attractive country people, I’ll give them that. But rustic is definitely a word I’d use to describe. I do not know the last time one of them saw the inside of a wash basin.”

Eliot looked hard at Margo. While she had to maintain decorum in public, inside these chambers was the real Margo that Eliot loved and sometimes hated at the same time. “I realize we’re used to a certain level of finery, my love, but you know we can be better than that.”

“I just don’t see it, El. Why are you so into him? What makes him different? He is cute, I’ll give you that. But I only want to see you happy. You deserve it, after what you've gone through. The last time you were so infatuated… well, you know how it ended. I can't go through seeing you like that again. A life with him… would be very different from what you are used to.”

Eliot looked down at the vests in his hands. He had several to choose from, and he realized how lucky he was, to be born into his family. Even if it felt stifling and overbearing, he was granted more luxury than most would see in a lifetime.

He wasn’t sure why Sir Ulrich mattered so much to him. It was true he had only spent a handful of moments with him. But those moments had made Eliot feel more alive than he had in years. The magic that he had felt pour off him seemed to creep into Eliot’s soul in more ways than one. The connection when their eyes met, the sureness with which he had seen him move on the joust field, the hopefulness in his eyes when he had spoken to him from atop his horse… it all pointed to Sir Ulrich as being a true thing in Eliot’s life. When he stopped to consider what honestly made him happy, Eliot didn’t think of his fine clothes, or his soft bed sheets, and definitely not his blood family... it was his relationship with Margo, possibly his flask and wine, and that feeling he had in his chest when he was near Sir Ulrich. He thought about the breath that left his body he’d felt when he saw him take that blow to the head today... he knew he had never felt that way about anyone before, and he suspected he never would again. Dancing right there at the corner of his eyelids, at the tips of his fingers was what Eliot had been wanting to feel his entire life… and he’d be damned if he let it escape because he couldn’t let go of superficial things… or because of the fear that lived inside himself.

“I know. I know what you’re saying, Bambi, and I love you for it. I can’t explain it myself… but I look at him and I just know that I have to chase this. And I'll be careful. Not like last time… Can you trust me?”

Margo smiled at him. “I always do. You just know that protecting you from yourself is part of my job description. Now pick out which dark blue shirt will get you laid. We worked all week. We deserve to have an incredible night that we will not remember!”

* * *

Quentin was not freaking out. He was fine. Everything was going to be _fine_. He, Josh, Kady, and Julia were inside the stable, having cleared out a space among the filled stalls. Josh was pounding on an empty barrel with the end of a broom, keeping rhythm. “And one and two and three and four!” he bellowed out in an even cadence.

Quentin took Kady’s hand, who was standing across from him, trying not to look like she’d rather be mucking out the stalls instead of helping Quentin learn how to dance. He grasped her hand firmly, and gave a little bow. Josh immediately slapped his hand down. “Your hand should be light, like a birdie on a branch!” he said, keeping his cadence. 

Quentin tried again, this time lightly grasping Kady’s fingers and bowing. Josh continued, “And one, two, and three and four.” Quentin and Kady both moved into a dance step Josh had shown him. After three steps, Josh interrupted again, “Kady doesn’t lead! She follows like a girl!”

All suddenly went silent, and Julia looked up from her perch, a needle clutched between her teeth. She was making good headway on sewing up Quentin’s tunic for the evening. Kady glared at Josh, and looked to Quentin, who gave her a pleading look. 

Kady acquiesced, saying simply “You’re lucky you actually won us money this week.” Josh took up his rhythm again. 

“And one and two and twirly twirly twirly,” he sang, as Quentin and Kady spun around each other. Quentin was actually enjoying this a bit - learning how to move his body wasn’t all so different from learning how to move his hands in spell casting. Granted, it did require a bit more coordination… but he could get it.

Until he twirled right into Kady’s back, and she rounded on him with a glare. “You’re going the wrong way!” Quentin accused her, as Kady pointed at his feet and said “I hope you’re more graceful with your boyfriend's cock than you are with those things.”

His eyes widening, his response was drowned out by Josh’s “And you’re still getting it wrong!” He continued, “And one and two and three and four!” Swallowing his tongue, Quentin held his hand out to Kady, and they continued the step.

None of them noticed Alice walking into the stable, carrying some of her tools. Watching as Quentin and Kady once again stumbled over each other, she let out a low whistle as she came closer.

“Oh? And you can do better, can you?” Josh asked.

“Of course I can,” Alice shrugged, as if dancing among horses and manure was the most natural thing in the world.

“Good!” Quentin said, ready to practice with anyone that was not Kady. “Why don’t you show us, then?”

Alice looked up, pretending to think about it. Then, “No.” She then turned back to her supplies.

Sighing in frustration, Quentin kicked a nearby bucket. “No,” he repeated.

Julia looked up at him. “Look, if I’m going to all this effort, you’d best learn to dance. Now ask her nicely,” she said, gesturing in Alice’s direction, and then fixing Quentin with a stern glare. Quentin looked at her, then back at Alice, who was staring at Quentin with an expectant look on her face. 

Sighing, Quentin put his hands on his waist. “I’m sorry, Alice,” he said, in his most saccharine tone of voice. “I was wondering if you would care to show us how to dance.”’ There he was, making all the weird hand gestures again. Did he always talk this much with his hands?

Glancing back at Julia, she met his eyes and said, “Please.” 

“Please!” Quentin said, turning back to Alice.

With a rueful smile, Alice nodded in agreement.

Within moments she had them set up in pairs, herself with Josh and Quentin and Kady making a solid go of it. They were twirling in a circle, connected by their hands, and Quentin had to admit he understood the movements a bit better with Alice’s direction.

“And one and two, three, four, five, six, seven, change partners!”

At her cue, Josh moved to Kady, and Quentin somewhat gracefully slid over to Alice’s side. A giggle in her voice, Alice continued, “And one, two, three, four...” the giggle threatened to turn into a full blown laugh as she hooked pinkies with Quentin, but she managed to control herself.

Julia was putting the finishing touches on Quentin’s tunic. She constructed the main bodice with a needle and thread, and was now using a few spells she had learned over the years to finish the seams and correct the sizing. She’d need him to try it on and make a few more adjustments, but overall, she was pleased with herself.

“... five, six, seven. Polonaise!” Alice continued, directing Quentin to her side. Their connected hands were held high between them as they danced forward, Kady and Josh smirking at each other as they followed in step behind. “And one... You’re not gonna wear your hair like that, are you?” Alice asked Quentin.

Quentin self-consciously put his free hand up to his hair. He never really gave much thought to his hair, except to try to put it up to keep it out of his face. He had been wearing it down, as to fit properly inside his helmet. “Is there another way?” he asked.

Julia rolled her eyes. As if she hadn’t tried a million times to get him to let her change his style. But one pretty face appears, and suddenly he’s open to anything…

* * *

Quentin walked into the main ballroom of the castle, his hands nervously playing with the buttons on his tunic. After Julia applied her finishing touches, it fit quite nicely, if a bit tight for his tastes. The navy blue fabric clung to his chest and shoulders, which had grown slightly more muscular with his training in the past couple of months. Julia had done something to the gold trim - it was in a bit of a paisley pattern now, and almost seemed to shimmer as he walked. He had dark pants that now matched the tunic perfectly, and his shoes had most of the dirt scrubbed off. His hair had been trimmed a bit - it still sat just at shoulder length, and had some kind of pomade applied that made Julia squeal when she gave to Alice. It was still down and flowing, but was more likely to stay out of his face.

He trailed behind a servant, who was showing him to his seat. Ahead of him, a table with a cooked pig, garnished beautifully, was being carried to the serving area. Quentin reminded himself that he belonged here. Or, at least, everyone thought he belonged here. He had never actually attended one of the balls with Sir Mayakovsky, but he had peeked in a time or two. It all looked dreadfully boring - one of the parts of being a knight he was not crazy about. But if it meant he got to spend time with Eliot, he’d learn to dance ten times over.

The ballroom was quite full. Milling about were many contestants he came up against over the past week, the local court, and several servants placing dishes, decorations, in their appropriate places. Many were already settling in for their meal. Elaborate centerpieces were on the tables, green and lush with decorative candles. Quentin thought they must have been enchanted to not catch on fire. Several torches were lit on the walls, and even more candles floated randomly several feet above his head. 

Quentin had never been one for crowds, and he had to admit that he was not prepared for tonight. But if there was one thing he had learned the past week, it was that he could fake it well enough to get by. Or, well, he had to, or there was that whole stocks or gallows thing waiting on the other end.

As he walked past a serving table, he saw Lord Eliot. Their eyes met, and Quentin felt pounds lighter. Eliot looked amazing - tight dark blue pants, with a matching shirt, and a vest that seemed to gleam with the same golden enchantment on Quentin’s tunic. He wore no tie, and his shirt left the first couple of buttons undone, showing a smattering of chest hair. Eliot broke in a stunning smile as he spotted Quentin and made his way to him.

“Sir Ulrich, you look fantastic,” Eliot told him, eyeing him head to foot, and then back again. He had some kind of charcoal smudged around his eyes, making them look wider and sultrier. Moving past Quentin, he took his seat at a nearby table - and looked up to Quentin to join him. Quentin sat down, turning to face Eliot.

“Eliot, you look…” he trailed off, while Eliot smiled and looked at him expectantly. Words failed Quentin as he continued, “Uh, you… “—it was starting to get awkward—“you remind me of the bible!” he finished triumphantly.

Eliot’s smile faltered a bit. “Ok, not what I was expecting. Most people I court don’t really tend to bring up the Bible... at least not on a first date.”

At the words “court” and “date,” Quentin couldn’t stop the blush from rising to his cheeks. Hurriedly, he continued, “When God stopped the sun in the sky and beyond to give Joshua time to defeat the Amorites.”

“You have my attention,” Eliot said, his eyes shining. “Go on.”

A shy smile lit up Quentin’s face. Leaning closer, he said, “If I could ask the powers that be one thing… it would be to stop the moon. Stop the moon and make this night… and your smile… last forever.”

Quentin had no idea what possessed him to speak those words aloud, or where they had come from. Well, he knew where they came from - his heart. But never in his life had he ever said the exact right thing, at the exact right time. It must be the pomade. Eliot’s smile faded a bit, and his eyes darkened. The air seemed to vibrate, Quentin’s heart pounding rapidly as he got a whiff of that same musky scent that had been attached to the token Eliot had sent to him. Eliot leaned further towards Quentin, his lips parted, and Quentin held his breath. He was so close, he could feel his breath on his cheek-

“DINNER IS SERVED!” came the booming voice from across the ballroom, along with the tinny ringing of a bell. Quentin jumped in his skin, the spell temporarily broken. Eliot seemed to come back to himself, leaning back in his chair as full plates were placed in front of them. Quentin could see Margo taking her seat next to Eliot.

“You are quite talented with your words, Sir Ulrich, almost even more so than with a lance,” Eliot told Quentin as their wine goblets were filled and they began to eat.

At hearing that name, Quentin felt his stomach tangle a bit. Being here, sitting next to Eliot - it felt like a dream. And Quentin knew that one day, probably soon, he would have to wake up. He could only hope he could take some of this dream with him when he did.

“Um, that’s definitely not usually the case,” Quentin replied. “I guess you just bring it out of me,” he continued, focusing on his food.

He could feel Eliot’s smile as they continued to eat. “So tell me more about you, Lord Eliot. You are not from Rouen, yes?”

“I live in Fillory proper, near Castle Whitespire. I travel to represent my family at several of the tournaments. They make for good opportunities for maintaining relations with the local villages and townships.” Eliot continued to tell Quentin a bit about his family, his siblings and parents. Quentin was originally from Fillory, not the main town, but rather a small village called Cheapside not far from Castle Whitespire. He and Eliot had grown up just near each other, their social statuses keeping them from ever meeting before. Now more than ever, Quentin was so happy he made this choice, to try to change his destiny instead of allowing it to send him where it may. Their paths may have never crossed otherwise. “Do you plan to attend World Championships? They will be held on the grounds at Castle Whitespire. Your performance this weekend shows you have a great chance of gaining an invitation.”

“I hope to,” Quentin said. “I must confess that this is my first tournament of this status. Before, I mainly participated in lower level, uh, local competitions. I’m glad that I am making an impression.”

“Oh, I’d say you are definitely making an impression.” Eliot met his eyes again, and Quentin found himself momentarily lost. He could have sworn he heard a soft snort from Margo’s direction.

They continued talking softly throughout dinner. Quentin found that while he had to… stretch the truth, he was able to use enough of his real life experiences to genuinely tell Eliot about himself. He talked about his time in training as a squire, first under Sir Walter deGrey when he was but a child, and later Sir Mayakovsky. He “gave the truth scope,” as Hoberman would say, and embellished that he trained with Mayakovsky instead of under him as a squire. He leaned away from talking about the details of Mayakovsky’s death, and his homeland, instead turning to his “squires” and his friendships with his men. He talked of how he had come to squire with two women, and the subject of their skills with magic were broached.

“I watched a couple of your Welter’s matches,” Eliot said, putting his napkin on his plate. He turned sideways in his chair, crowding Quentin a bit. Quentin struggled not to react as Eliot’s knee brushed against his under the table.

“Oh?” Quentin said, butterflies in his belly and warmth in his face. He had looked for Eliot as often as he could, but he did not remember seeing him at any of the Welter’s squares. 

“I couldn’t stay long, I didn’t have the time, but I had to see who was cleaning up in every match. It is not often you see someone with such raw talent in magic. I can see why Mayakovsky took a liking to you,” Eliot continued, watching Quentin with interest. “I often heard of his prowess in Welter’s, and in magic in general. I almost think the wards around the physical events were strengthened specifically to make sure he didn’t get around them.”

Quentin smiled under the praise. “He was very skilled, that’s true. I was lucky to work with him before he passed.”

“From what I heard of Sir Mayakovsky, he was skilled and powerful, but not very…” Eliot trailed off, looking for the right word.

“He was an asshole,” Quentin supplied, giving a quick glance around to ensure they would not be overheard. Most guests were still finishing their dinners. It would not be looked upon nicely to be caught speaking ill of the dead. “I did learn a lot from him. I often wondered if the abuse we received was worth it. But now…”

“Now?” Eliot prompted him.

“Well, if I had not worked with him, I wouldn’t have gotten the opportunity to come here. And I never would have met you,” Quentin said all in a rush, wondering where all of this courage was coming from. Ducking his head, Quentin peered up at Eliot from under his lashes. He wasn’t smiling, but his expression was so intense it took Quentin’s breath away. His lovely hazel orbs shined in the candle light, making Quentin feel that he could see inside his soul. While Quentin wasn’t short, Eliot definitely had more than a few inches on him. The urge to reach up, put his hand behind his head and guide Eliot’s lips to his was seconds away from overtaking him. He could see Eliot’s eyes darken almost imperceptibly, the other guests in the ballroom faded away.

“I need to see something,” Eliot said after a moment, his voice rough, “Could I...” He held out his hand to Quentin, palm up. 

Quentin, unsure of what was happening, happily slid his palm over Eliot’s. The warmth of his grip, the haziness of whatever this feeling was overtook Quentin’s brain. He slotted his fingers between Eliot’s, and Eliot pulled their hands down, hidden between them, under the table. The air hummed, and Quentin could feel the magic surging in his body. He had never felt an attraction as strong as this before; it almost made him dizzy. As Eliot held his hand, his other one moved quickly, his fingers circling and turning lightly between them. A surge of warm, yellow light grew from their joined palms, and quickly dissipated between them. For a fleeting moment, Quentin had the taste of wine and spices on his tongue. He was left with a subtle buzz in his brain, fire in his belly, and a growing erection that he struggled to contain.

His mouth slightly open, he gazed at Eliot, who appeared to be suffering the same reaction. “What was that?” Quentin breathed, his voice heavy. He had heard of love magic, sex magic, spells that could determine compatibility and chemistry, but he’d never actually experienced it before. Blinking his eyes, the room slowly came back into focus. He could see Margo behind Eliot, her eyes wide as she peered over at them. 

“Eliot!” she hissed quietly. “You are in the middle of the ballroom. What the fuck are you doing?”

At Quentin’s confused look, Eliot attempted to explain. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have done that. I just… I needed to know.”

“Needed to know what?” Quentin asked, growing more confused.

“It’s a… compatibility spell. Sort of. I don’t know. It takes your magical energy, combines it with your partners. Gives you an idea of what may come… I didn’t expect such a strong reaction...” he trailed off, swallowing hard, his eyes now filled with worry. He had crossed a line, he knew it.

Quentin gave a dry chuckle. “You needed a spell to confirm this?” he asked, his palm still entwined with Eliot’s. He gave it a small squeeze.

Eliot gave a relieved smile. His eyes moving to start down at the floor, he started, “I just-”

He was interrupted by the ringing of that damn bell again. “PLEASE GATHER FOR DANCING!” the host bellowed, as servants began quickly clearing plates. Quentin looked at him, hoping his relief didn’t show too much on his face. He knew Eliot was on the brink of a Serious Conversation, and Quentin wasn’t sure if he could have it right now. The urge to spill his guts was overpowering, and Quentin wasn’t sure if it was because he had maybe just been magically roofied, or because the universe demanded he lay himself bare at Eliot’s feet. 

As they stood, Margo butted in. “Look, he’s an idiot.”

Quentin looked more than a little shocked at Margo speaking about Eliot so… bluntly, here, in public, right in front of him. Eliot still refused to meet his eyes, an ashamed expression on his face. Speaking in a hushed whisper, she continued, “It’s a kind of love magic, but not the kind that will fuck up your will. He’s an heir to part of a large fortune and a lot of influence, and we get all sorts that come around thinking they can get in his pants and fill up their coffers. That spell helps give him an impression of if you’re genuine or not.”

Quentin quickly dropped Eliot’s hand, taking a small step back. “I’m not... this isn’t…”

Eliot shook his head, moving quickly to reassure Quentin. “No. No, I know that. I felt… I could feel how genuine you are. How kind your soul is. How much you care for those around you. I just… I felt like something was off, before, with you. I can’t explain it. And in all honesty, this… you've overwhelmed me. There’s no excuse for it, I shouldn’t have done it at all without your full consent, let alone here in a crowded ballroom. I only hope you can forgive me.”

Quentin glanced around the ballroom, and then back at Eliot. Who was he to blame Eliot for following his instincts? He WAS lying to him. There WAS something off with him. He knew that royal families usually had some pretty strict tests for suitors to wade through. He should probably not move any further at all. End things now, before they got in too deep. Before he broke both their hearts by his silly notion of “changing his stars.” Instead, as he stood there and looked into Eliot’s eyes, he nodded. “Of course. I understand.” And he grabbed and squeezed Eliot’s hand again.

The relief in Eliot’s face was immediate. Smiling tentatively, he pulled Quentin towards the dance floor.

Oh, shit. In all the excitement … Quentin had totally forgotten he was supposed to dance.

* * *

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck._ Escaping to the dance floor, Eliot could feel Margo’s heated stare on his back. WHAT was he thinking? Talking to Sir Ulrich, learning about his life, feeling the connection deepen with every second, Eliot knew he was in deeper than he should be after… an hour with him? However, with every heated glance or flirtatious comment, a voice in the back of his head screaming _it’s not real_ got louder. 

He had once before in his life felt a connection he could compare to what he was feeling now. It was with Mikel Drake, a young handsome noble. He had fallen fast and hard, taking him to bed in record time, even for him. After a tumultuous few weeks, close to a possible marriage proposal, Eliot had found out he was actually an agent of a rebel group within Fillory. The plan had been to seduce their way into his family, and gain access to other members of the royal court on his travels. While Eliot was thankful his deception had been revealed quickly, he was left sullen and inconsolable for weeks. Looking back, he wasn’t even sure if he had even loved Mikel, or just the idea of being in love so deeply. Margo had finally kicked his ass back in gear, but Eliot would never forget that level of heartache.

He had taken the chance on the spell before he fell even further with Sir Ulrich He had not expected such a strong reaction… the magical energy had surged through him, buzzing in his head and limbs, leaving a mark upon his heart that did nothing but deepen his affection for the knight... and his attraction. While he still felt Ulrich was hiding something _(these days, who wasn’t, really?_ ), he was convinced that he was a good man, and his feelings for him were true.

Shoving the events of the last few minutes aside, Eliot and Sir Ulrich arrived at the dance floor with several other guests. Their joined hands had dropped as they approached. The host was an older gentleman, who seemed to enjoy his role way too much. “So what dance would you have?” he asked the group excitedly. “A coranto?” he continued, stamping his foot and flinging his arms open wide. “Or a basse dance?” he continued. The group tittered in excitement, as Eliot smiled widely. He did enjoy a good dance. Eyeing Ulrich, he noted that he looked a little green around the gills. Hopefully he did truly forgive Eliot for his transgression earlier…

“Sir Ulrich!” A voice rang out behind the crowd, and all turned to see who had spoken. Count Chatwin was standing behind one of the dinner tables, in front of his seat. “Why don’t you show us all a dance of your country? Show us a dance of Gelderland.”

Eliot looked to Sir Ulrich, trying to gauge his reaction. While he was a noble, Eliot got the impression he was not one that particularly enjoyed the limelight, or being put on the spot unexpectedly.

As he thought, Ulrich seemed to be taken a bit aback. “Uh, well...”

The host latched onto the idea immediately, seemingly ready to cream his pants at the thought of a new dance to learn. “Yes!” he said excitedly. “Gelderland!”

Eliot watched Sir Ulrich “hrm” and “um, well” a few more times, making some odd gestures with his hands. Just as he was about to try to swoop in for a rescue, Sir Ulrich said more decisively “Well, it's a lot like the farandole”—the host nodded in understanding—“but with some differences.”

Ulrich walked to the middle of the dance floor, talking to everyone and no one. “Well, first you bow,” he said, as he took a deep bow towards the host. The host and the crowd bowed back, with the exception of Eliot and Margo, who had amused smiles on their faces. Eliot found the entire thing adorable, while Margo couldn’t wait to see what came next.

Ulrich then stood back up, and began swaying his arms back and forth across his waist. “ ...and ...” he said as he showed the step. He continued moving forward, making the same motion, continuing to say “...and ...and …” as though he was a robot incorrectly programmed with the smallest amount of rhythm stuck in a short time loop. The host looked a bit confused at the movement, and Eliot could hear giggles starting up in the crowd. His smile faded as he realized this was going south pretty quick.

After Ulrich’s fourth step-sway forward, Eliot strode over to him, turned, and took his place directly in front of Ulrich. Gracefully arching his hands over his head, he moved his body in a sway similar to Ulrich’s, and gave a small clap. The host and several of the crowd mimicked the movement. Music started, and Eliot twirled around Ulrich, ending in another clap. He then spun towards him and gave a bow, offering his hand to Ulrich.

“Places!” the host called. “Places!” Sir Ulrich watched, wide-eyed, as several couples paired off, and soon there were pairs of dancers all over the ballroom floor. Eliot and Ulrich bowed to each other a few more times, ending with their arms swaying to each side and a twirl around their partner. Eliot could tell Sir Ulrich was unsure about what exactly was going on, but he followed Eliot’s lead well enough. 

The music played on and Eliot spotted Margo twirling with a handsome guest. Making eye contact with her, the two pairs came together and twirled in a polonaise-like step that Eliot knew well. The tempo of the music picked up, and they broke into step with their partners, twirling and dancing. Eliot smiled at Sir Ulrich, who seemed to break free of the nervousness he possessed earlier. Eliot danced a bit more wildly than he normally would, encouraging Ulrich to do the same. The pair twirled and clapped, not noticing the rest of the ballroom copying their freedom of movement. Ulrich would grab Eliot’s hand as they twirled, bodies swaying close and then apart, grinning stupidly and moving with abandon as they lost themselves to the music and the moment.

From the back of the ballroom, Count Chatwin watched their antics with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. No one noticed as he turned and left the room.

* * *

Quentin and Eliot left the ballroom, hand-in-hand, slipping out after a few songs. Quentin felt drunk, although he’d had little to drink. He was high on Eliot - his smell, his smile, his long legs and strong hands. He’d never danced before, but somehow he had to be persuaded to leave the floor when he was with Eliot. Granted, Eliot didn’t have to try very hard.

Eliot pulled Quentin behind him, seemingly looking for something. Spotting a nearby alcove covered by a curtain, Eliot slipped inside, pulling Quentin with him. As he disappeared behind the curtain, Quentin thought he saw Margo down the hall behind them, not too far away.

They appeared to be in some kind of storage vestibule. Burnt torches were piled nearby, next to a stack of old chairs. Quentin’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and suddenly he realized he was only inches away from Eliot, who had turned to face Quentin as he stepped in.

The air in the room changed as the smiles fell from their faces. Electricity and heat coiled low in Quentin’s belly as his hand slid out of Eliot's, up his arm. Eliot swallowed thickly as one of his hands reached up to cup Quentin’s cheek. Quentin leaned into it, closing his eyes.

“Sir Ulrich,” Eliot whispered. Quentin had to keep himself from flinching at that name. How far could he go, without telling Eliot the truth about how he was? “I’m sorry, truly, about earlier,” Eliot continued. 

"Don't be," Quentin whispered. "It's forgotten."

Quentin’s hand continued its ascent up his arm, his shoulder, finally landing at the back of Eliot’s head, tangling in the thick, soft strands there. The slightest pressure not even needed, Quentin pulled Eliot’s lips onto his.

Soft, chaste, at first. Tentative, for a moment. Then heat, tension, electricity, charged and released as Eliot wrapped one arm around his waist, pulling him closer. Quentin deepened the kiss, taking Eliot’s upper lip between his, then tongues touching and caressing. He’s a good kisser, Quentin decided, not that it surprised him. He tasted of sweet wine and some kind of spice, his lips as soft as Quentin imagined. Quentin tightened his fingers around the nape of Eliot’s neck, his other hand sliding up, cradling his face. Their bodies pressed flush against each other; Quentin could feel heat and want enveloping him. Unable to stop himself, he moaned, low and rough. 

Eliot's fingers were not idle, moving across Quentin’s torso, caressing as he backed Quentin up slowly until he felt the wall behind him. Feeling Eliot’s hands through the soft fabric of his tunic, on his shoulders, his chest, his breath came faster and his hands and lips began moving more urgently. One hand slid down to Eliot’s collarbone, stroking the hairs visible through the open buttons on his shirt ( _oh how he’d thought about doing that all night_ ). A quick movement and another button was released, more skin to touch.

Eliot broke the kiss, moving his lips down his jaw. Quentin tilted his head back, against the wall, giving Eliot better access. This was more than Quentin had ever thought possible, this passion, the haziness and clarity all at once. His cock was already hard and straining against the fabric of his pants. Eliot slipped a thigh between his legs, and Quentin shuddered, grinding down, searching for friction. 

How long they stood there against the wall, panting and touching, Quentin had no idea. Time seemed to stand still as he his mind was blissfully quiet for once, consumed with only the feeling of Eliot’s skin under his fingertips and the sounds of his soft gasps in his ears.

He touched everything he could, his hands following a path he’d traveled in his mind many times over the past few days - his soft curls, muscular back, the curve of his ass, moving around to briefly cup the bulge straining against his already tight pants. Eliot responded beautifully, his hands and mouth just as fervent - his lips trailing up Quentin’s neck, stopping to tug an earlobe between his teeth, as his hands massaged up his chest, then tangling and tightening in Quentin’s hair.

Quentin moaned, and flipped them, switching positions and pressing Eliot against the wall. Surging up, pressing another hard kiss against his lips, licking inside his mouth, his fingers fiddling with Eliot’s belt, Eliot moaning “Ulrich …”

Quentin froze. Like a bucket of cold water, shame washed over him. He was teetering on the edge—of what he wasn’t sure—but he knew that he could go no further without being honest. Eliot reacted to his sudden change in temperament, their bodies still pressed up against each other. “Are you ok?” he whispered, moving his hands to sit at the nape of Quentin’s neck, pulling back to look into his eyes.

Quentin placed his hands on Eliot’s wrists, resting there, and placed his forehead against Eliot’s. “Yes,” he said, with a dry chuckle. “I’m more than ok.”

Letting out a long breath, Eliot smiled. “This is…”

“…amazing,” Quentin finished. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Well, if you liked that... ” Eliot said, moving in for another kiss.

Quentin responded to his touch, unable to help himself, and then pulled back again. “Eliot, I need to-”

“I saw him go in this direction. I believe he went to the privy. I’ll make sure he hasn’t lost his way!” Margo’s loud voice washed over both of them as they remembered that they were, in fact, in a supply closet outside of a crowded ballroom. While they would be far from the first couple ever caught in such a state, Quentin was sure Eliot would rather not have any tawdry stories make their way home to his family.

Margo’s voice, in a harsh whisper, flittered into the room, “You have about one minute before I’m pulling you out of there, El. Lord Cartwright is looking for you.”

“Thank you, kitten,” Eliot responded. “I’ll be right out!” he finished, in his cheeriest voice.

Turning back to Quentin, he placed another hard kiss on his lips. “Will you write to me, Sir Ulrich?”

Quentin blinked. One minute was hardly enough time to spill his guts and beg for forgiveness. “Yes, Eliot. Of course I will write to you. When—where—can I see you again?”

Straightening his shirt, Eliot told him, “We are planning to travel straight to Black Hallow from here. Then I will spend some time at home in Fillory.”

“I will be competing at Black Hallow,” Quentin said, pleased that they would not be separated for long.

“Eliot!” Margo whispered, sticking her head inside. “Wrap it up. NOW.”

“Well then,” Eliot said, his hands still at Quentin’s neck. “It’s a date.” Bending his head, he captured his lips in one last final kiss. Quentin put all he had into it, wanting to brand Eliot’s taste on his tongue. The kiss ended suddenly, as Eliot was yanked away and out of the room. Quentin stood there, his arms empty, but his heart full.

A beautiful brunette head popped back in the curtains. “You!” Margo pointed at him. “You wait three minutes, and then leave.” Her head disappeared as suddenly as it arrived.

Suddenly, she was back again. “See you in a week, Romeo,” she said, giving Quentin a conspiratorial wink.


	5. Chapter 5

As Quentin was dancing at banquet, not too far away Alice Quinn worked in the empty blacksmith workshop. Sweat glistened on her brow as she frowned at the items set out in front of her. Holding up a sealed jar with tongs, it’s contents glowed brilliantly in the darkness. Alice, carefully with heavy gloves, removed the seal on the jar and poured the brilliant liquid into her forge. Quickly, she applied a sheet of metal to the anvil placed over flames rising up from the heat source, pounding it thinner and into the desired shape. 

Hours later, covered in soot, the morning light’s rays starting to shine in through the dusty windows, she used a tiny hammer and chisel to carve a shape into the armor - a small moth. Pleased, she blew off the excess metal shavings and admired her work.

* * *

Quentin stood in the middle of the workshop, bending his arms every which way. Alice had burst into their tent a few minutes earlier, demanding his attention immediately. Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, Quentin had stumbled behind her, followed by Kady, Josh and Julia. They had plans to begin their travels to Black Hallow today, although Quentin was still dwelling on the fact that he felt he was leaving a piece of his heart behind in Rouen.

Alice had placed a new, silver set of armor upon Quentin’s upper half - shiny, in several pieces, with unique connectors between each piece. It was unlike any armor Quentin had ever seen before. It fit like it was crafted just for him, which, Quentin realized, it was. Alice was making another offering to be a part of their crew - and Quentin had to admit that this one would be hard to resist.

Although… Quentin continued to move and flex in the armor, sharing a skeptical look with Kady. Alice walked around him, eyes on Quentin’s face. “What?” she asked warily, arms crossed, seeing his expression.

“Uh... I dunno. It’s too small. It’s too light,” he said. It was so lightweight, it felt like he was wearing almost nothing at all. Quite the contrast to the heavy iron of Sir Mayakovsky’s old armor.

“He’ll be crushed,” Kady said, in between mouthfuls of banana.  _ Where had she gotten a banana? _ Quentin wondered. It looked delicious. “Killed.”

Alice sighed. “No. I found a new way to heat the steel. It’s thinner, lighter… but just as strong.” 

A thought occurred to Quentin. “What ‘new way’ did you come up with?” he asked.

Alice stilled for a moment. “I have some talent in phosphoromancy,” she said quietly. Holding up her hand in front of a sunbeam streaming into the building, she moved her fingers, and her hand, from the wrist up, disappeared.

The group looked at each other in surprise. “Well, that is handy,” Quentin said. “But how does that apply to this armor?”

“I was able to bend the light to create a very hot molten flame. I used it to heat the steel,” Alice finished quietly.

“You created and contained a molten flame?” Quentin asked, disbelief and awe coloring his words. That was quite advanced magic, even for his group. Moving on, he continued, “I cannot wear armor touched by magical enchantments. Even if this protects -”

“You will be fine within the arena,” Alice interrupted. “The armor itself was created through sweat and labor, not sorcery. Maybe heating the flames via a magical artifact is a loophole… but not one that should impede your ability to compete in it.”

Julia approached from behind, noticing the moth imprint near Quentin’s shoulder. “What is this?” she asked, pointing.

“The marks of my trade. Should another knight admire the armor,” Alice responded.

Quentin couldn’t hold back a small spurt of laughter, and Kady was smirking as she got up for a closer look. At seeing the emblem, she chortled. “You could’ve picked something better than a butterfly.”

“It’s a moth,” Alice said sternly, staring daggers at Kady. Julia smiled at Alice encouragingly.

“Twist and bend,” Alice told Quentin. “Feel the movement.”

Quentin moved his torso back and forth at the waist, swaying his arms. This did give much more freedom than his used armor did, and his endurance in events would increase without such a heavy load to carry.

“But eventually I will be struck,” he told Alice.

“And then death,” Kady finished for him. 

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, Alice let out a small sigh. “Look,” she said, patience wearing thin, “Do you at least have the courage to test it?”

A few minutes later, Quentin was standing in the workshop, in front of a large pile of hay and flour sacks piled up against the wall. Julia and Alice were running towards him, pushing a large wooden log strapped to the ceiling by chains. Unsure what this piece of equipment was actually used for, its current purpose was going to be to blast him into the wall. He stood in the pathway of the log, which was aimed directly at his torso. With a final heave, Alice and Julia shoved the log the final few steps into Quentin. It made contact directly in the center of his chest. Quentin’s body flew backwards through the air, landing hard against the soft landing pad they had fashioned. As his body settled, one of the bags fell over his head and into his lap, spewing flour all over him.

The group rushed over to where he lay. “Are you alright, Quentin?” Julia asked worriedly.

Quentin sat up, blowing flour out of his face. “I didn’t feel a thing!” he said in glee, a brilliant smile lighting up his face. Julia laughed in joy, while Alice sported a smug smile. 

After that, Alice had cemented a place in the group. While no one directly told her Quentin’s secret, and she did not ask, Quentin was certain she was smart enough to connect the dots. She did not question why she needed to call him Sir Ulrich in public, and was happy enough to do whatever was asked as long as she was allowed to travel with them.

* * *

A week later, Quentin was approaching the joust arena at Black Hallow. His opponent was being helped onto his horse by his squires, struggling under the heavy armor he wore.

Quentin, sporting his new armor, walked down the path to the arena, passing several other knights on horseback. He could hear titters as he strode forward, and could even see a few pointing - his armor was very different from the norm, indeed. He kept his head high and refused to engage, keeping his stride steady and determined. Julia and Kady had Saxon ready, and Quentin stepped up on the stool to assist in mounting his horse. While normally his friends had to help him up, he easily stepped up and across Saxon’s back, settling in the saddle.

He could hear the laughter subside from behind him, as the knights who were just jeering in his direction, now shot him looks of jealousy. Quentin smiled to himself, taking stock of his armor - he had passed through the magical wards just fine, and everything appeared to be properly in place. Glancing up in the stands, he saw Eliot and Margo, watching. They hadn’t yet had any time together since their arrival, but Quentin smiled in his direction, pleased to see an answering grin.

Quentin observed his competitor, still in the process of getting himself saddled. “What is the name of that knight?” Quentin asked Julia and Kady.

Julia was in her place in front of Saxon, holding his reins gently. Kady stood on the other side of the horse, holding Quentin’s helmet. “Piers Courtenay,” Julia answered. “He’s raised the taxes on his land three times this year to pay for tournament.”

“His people starve while he sits at banquet,” Kady added, handing Quentin his helmet.

Quentin frowned, taking the helmet while looking harder at Sir Courtenay. 

Kady peered at Julia from under Saxon’s neck. “It’s probably true,” she whispered. Julia gave Kady a smile and an answering wink.

Once the flag raised, Quentin spurred Saxon on with a vengeance, having his lance strong and ready immediately. The blow he delivered to his opponent sent both he and his horse toppling into the wooden boundary, breaking it into splinters. The horse got up, but Sir Courtenay writhed in pain on the ground.

Looking at the fallen knight in satisfaction, Quentin threw his demolished lance to the ground, and returned back to his party.

In the stands, Eliot smiled and applauded. “Ulrich von Lichtenstein,” he said to Margo, a large smile lighting up his face as he waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. The crowd cheered Ulrich’s name over and over.

“Alright, I’ll give it to you. He’s got some skills,” Margo replied a smile.

* * *

Black Hallow was a shorter tournament - the jousting matches took place in only a day. As Quentin had only signed up for that event, it was a quick tournament for him. As such, it was only an hour or so later that Quentin and his group (including Alice) were in the spectator section of the joust arena. Count Chatwin was due to take on Sir Thomas Colville, both of whom Quentin had seen in Rouen the week before. Sir Colville showed remarkable talent in the joust, and the excitement in the air was palpable. Quentin would eventually take on both men later today.

Tick was in the center of the arena, introducing his liege. He stood not far from Quentin, the sun shining on his sweaty forehead, his mustache just as grand as Quentin remembered.

“The Count Chatwin…” he began, “...son of Philippe de Vitry...son of Gilles…” he started to sputter as a bright glare caught his eye.

The source of the glare came from a looking glass in his Josh’s hand; he was using it to direct a ray of sunlight into Tick’s face as he spoke. Tick, unsure where the glare was coming from, was thrown delightfully off-balance. Nevertheless, he persisted. “...master of the free companies...defender of his… enormous… manhood...a shining example of chivalry... and champagne!” Tick gave a bow and made his way off the field, glaring at Josh all the way.

“Nice work!” Josh called out, very pleased with himself. Quentin, and even Julia could not resist a small smile.

As Colville’s herald began his introduction, Julia said to Quentin, “Watch every move Chatwin makes. If there’s a weakness, we’ll find it.”

Quentin looked at Chatwin, the rage inside him beginning to boil just at the sight of him. He had not forgotten the words Chatwin had left him with, just last week. “See me when you’re worthy,” he had said, a cocky grin across his stupid face. The humiliation of that day felt so fresh, it could have happened moments ago. Quentin clenched his hands into fists as he imagined pummeling into Chatwin so hard he flew off his horse as Sir Courtenay had earlier that morning. He could do it, he knew he could. He would have the chance later today - and he couldn’t wait.

Focusing back on the field, Quentin said, “Well, Colville looks fit,” as he remembered the knight’s injury the week before. “Should be a good match.”

As Colville’s herald continued, Tick was engaged in a conversation near the officials podium. It looked to be tense, as Tick suddenly turned and looked at Colville. Tick sent one of his squires running to Count Chatwin. Colville’s herald paused, distracted by the commotion. He continued, “It is my deepest honor to present to you ….”

Chatwin’s squire reached Count Chatwin, who was in full armor, on horseback, ready to compete. “It’s Edward, my lord,” the squire told Count Chatwin. “They’re sure of it.”

Count Chatwin looked at Sir Colville, and then heaved a sigh. Making eye contact with Tick, Chatwin gave him a nod.

Tick quickly reached for a white flag, stored behind the podium. He hung it on two nails protruding from the wooden structure, marking Count Chatwin’s withdrawal from the event. The crowd booed the turn of events. An expression of disappointment marked Sir Colville’s face.

Quentin, stunned, said “Chatwin withdrew.”

“To withdraw like that can only mean one thing,” Julia said.

All heads turned in Colville’s direction. “Royalty,” Kady said, as they all speculated who was under the helmet. It covered his entire face, with only a window that he could open and close as needed, per usual with jousting armor. Colville raised his lance in respect to Count Chatwin. Chatwin raised his in return. Both men turned to leave the arena.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Josh said.

* * *

Only hours later, it was Quentin’s turn to face Sir Colville. Quentin was armored and on his horse, lance in hand, the joust about to begin. Josh had not yet returned with any news on Sir Colville’s true identity, and as such, Quentin’s contest with him was still on. Withdrawing would mean that he had no chance at tournament champion, and therefore no chance at a prize for him or his crew.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin saw Josh run into the arena, as fast as his legs could carry him. He could see him pleading with the game official as the musicians announced the start of the joust. Suddenly Josh was speeding his way, hell on his heels.

“Wait! Wait!” Josh called to him, stopping in front of Saxon. Breathing heavily, he struggled to get his words out. “Colville is Edward, the Black Prince, and future High King of Filory.”

Immediately, Quentin understood. The next-in-line to the throne would never be allowed to endanger themselves in such a way as competing in the joust. “He’s in disguise like me. So he can compete.” Quentin felt a flicker of pride in his chest, that he would have something so close in common to a future High King.

Josh, the words flying out of his mouth, said, “He’s never met an enemy without victory. He has never attached a town he could not defeat.”

“We’re Fillorian, Josh!” Kady said. “We know who he is.”

“You must withdraw, Q,” Julia said. Turning to Josh, “Tell them! They’re about to drop the flag.”

“Absolutely!” Josh again ran back to the officials podium. 

“Give me the lance,” Kady told Quentin, reaching for it.

Quentin sat on his horse, looking across the way at Sir Colvile (or rather, Prince Edward). They were the same - both trying to fight their circumstances, to do what they loved. Who was he to say Prince Edward couldn’t compete, when he was here in very different, but still similar circumstances?

Josh grabbed the white flag, and hung it in front of the officials podium. The crowd groaned, and Prince Edward sighed, realizing his days as Sir Colville were over.

Quentin, however, wasn’t ready to let Prince Edward’s dream die just yet. Ignoring Kady, he urged Saxon on, and the horse leapt forward. Kady gaped after him, and Julia and Alice joined her, watching Quentin in shock.

Prince Edward saw Quentin coming, and smiled broadly. “Lance!” he said, shutting the window on his visor closed. His lance was thrust into his hand by his squire, and he quickly spurred his horse forward.

The two met in the middle, each breaking a lance on each other’s torso. Kady, Julia, and Alice watched, mouths agape, flabbergasted at Quentin’s recklessness. “Fucking idiot,” Kady said, thoroughly done. 

Josh, white flag back in hand, watched from the sidelines. “What in the actual fuck,” he said to himself. He threw the flag on the ground and stalked towards Quentin.

Eliot and Margo applauded, confused about exactly what was happening. Count Chatwin had made his way to the royal box and was standing near them, watching as well.

Quentin and Prince Edward cantered their horses towards each other. Josh caught up to Quentin, asking, “Are you mad? You knowingly endanger a member of the royal family.”

Quentin had pushed his visor back up on his head, leaving his face visible. Meeting Josh’s eyes, he said, “He knowingly endangers himself.”

Prince Edward stopped his horse across from Quentin, his visor still partially covering his face. “Well fought, Sir Ulrich. As it was in Rouen.”

Quentin replied, “And you also. Prince Edward.”

Smiling broadly, Prince Edward removed his helmet. The crowd audibly reacted at the Black Prince being on the grounds. “You knew me?” he asked Quentin, seemingly pleased. 

Watching from the stands, Eliot’s eyes widened. He knew Prince Edward, but had not spent much time in his presence, as he was usually off at some battle or another. Casting a worried look to Margo, he focused on the conversation between the two men.

“And still you rode?” Prince Edward questioned Quentin.

“It’s not in me to withdraw,” Quentin responded honestly. Inside, he pushed down the nervous part of him that knew he could be very severely punished for his actions.

“No,” Prince Edward said, as he contemplated Quentin. “Nor me. Though it happens,” he added, referring to his withdrawal at Rouen… and no doubt remembering how Quentin did not force the match. 

“Yes, it does,” Quentin replied. 

Prince Edward gave Quentin a long look. Quentin knew this was the moment - where the Prince could decide to make an example of him… perhaps with a stay in the stocks, or stripping him of his 'title'... or look the other way. Quentin felt he knew which way the Prince would land—the men seemed to understand each other—but life had taught Quentin that nothing was a guarantee.

Nodding at him, Prince Edward said, “Good luck to you.” Relief coursed through Quentin. The Prince would not demand any punishment upon Quentin.

“And you also,” Quentin replied. The two men rapped their chests once, and held up their fist in a salute of honor among knights. They then returned to their parties.

At the award ceremony that day, Quentin was announced the winner of the mounted joust and tournament champion. As Count Chatwin had withdrawn, 'Sir Thomas Colville' was disqualified due to his lineage being revealed, and Quentin had won his other matches handily, he easily took the top prize. However, Quentin was far from pleased as he received his trophy - a lovely golden cornucopia.

Tossing it to Julia, he told her, “Here. Melt it down, sell it, do whatever you do.”

Frowning, Julia responded, “Yes, your majesty.”

Josh looked at Kady in confusion at Quentin’s foul mood. “Quentin! You’re tournament champion! What’s your deal?” Kady told him.

“I’m not champion until I defeat Chatwin! He withdrew,” Quentin responded, stalking angrily towards the exit of the arena.

“Sir Ulrich!” a familiar voice called out.

Quentin was so focused on Chatwin, he had not noticed Eliot’s approach. He had spent much of this past week dreaming of seeing him again, but right now not even Eliot's presence could chase away his anger.

“I’ve come to see what you’ll wear to banquet tonight,” Eliot said, matching stride with Quentin.

_ Banquet _ , Quentin thought. What a useless concept right now, the absolute last thing on his mind. “Nothing,” he snapped.

If Eliot was taken aback by his tone, he did not show it. Smiling, he said “Well then we’ll cause a sensation, for I’ll dress to match.”

Eliot was, as always, an absolute vision. Dressed in earth tones, his jacket looked to be made of velvet, it’s dark brown material flowing nicely with his deep red shirt. His hair was pulled back, his curls overflowing at the back of his head. His eyes were particularly striking today, which Quentin noted even as he bit out, “Don’t you ever get tired of putting on clothes?”

Eliot’s smile faltered at that, as he looked away from Quentin. Josh hurried to Quentin’s side and whispered in his ear, “I believe he’s talking about taking them off, my lord.”

Eliot’s hands touched the wooden barrier between them, which separated the arena from the spectator area. Speaking softer, Eliot said, “A flower is only as good as its petals, don’t you think?”

Still feeling the thunder in his ears, Quentin was unable to stop himself from speaking. Only this time, he did not say the exact right thing at all. Looking into Eliot's beautiful eyes, slightly hurt and full of questions, Quentin only saw the differences between them - Eliot, in his finery. Quentin, in a dirty tunic, torn pants and worn out boots. Eliot, born into comfort and fortune. Quentin, pretending to be born into the same, but in actuality he wasn't worth the mud on Eliot's shoes. Bubbling with rage and shame, Quentin bit out, “A flower is good for nothing.”

Julia, Kady, and Josh stood a few feet away, watching with interest. Margo had sidled up to Alice, and they were having a whispered conversation next to the group.

Quentin and Eliot stepped a few feet to the side. “Really?” Eliot asked, the surprise and slight pain evident in his voice.

Quentin felt like he was standing outside of himself. An inevitable explosion you knew was coming, but could not take your eyes off of. He knew he should stop, take a moment, get himself under control, and apologize. But instead, he watched himself plow forward.

“Well, you can’t eat a flower. A flower doesn’t keep you warm,” he reasoned.

“And a rose never knocked a man off a horse either, did it?” Eliot shot back, his hackles raised.

Quentin, in a moment he’d come to regret very shortly, felt his brain implode. Eliot just didn’t get it. He never would - they were from completely different worlds. He was an idiot to think they would ever have a future. “You’re just a silly boy, aren’t you?” Quentin said, his irritation plain in his tone.

At that, heads turned in their direction. Margo stopped her conversation with Alice, her eyes narrowing as she listened. Even Kady looked mildly worried.

Eliot lowered his eyes to the ground, considering his response. Swallowing thickly, he met Quentin’s eyes and said tersely, “Better a silly boy with a flower than a silly boy with a horse and a stick.” He then spun on his heel, motioned to Margo, and left, Margo glaring back at Quentin over her shoulder.

Quentin immediately felt ill upon returning to his tent. He did not go to banquet that night. He did not attempt to contact Eliot at all. Ignoring the pleading of his friends, that he could easily fix his mistake and make amends, he had them pack up camp. They began their travel to the next tournament immediately.

* * *

The next few weeks were fruitful for Quentin. He made his way across the Fillorian lands and beyond, placing in every tournament and making quite a name for Sir Ulrich. Alice continued to travel with them - she proved quite knowledgeable about magic, and she was very good with the horses. The group bonded (although getting Alice to open up on a personal level was quite the challenge), getting to know each other over card games (no gambling allowed, Julia told Josh sternly), games of Push, and games of drinking. Kady was forever the winner any time liquor was involved. Quentin kept his focus on jousting, and tried not to think too hard about what he had ruined with Eliot. He was anxious to see Count Chatwin again and make him feel regret for the humiliation he had put Quentin through. That plan, however, was thwarted in Bordeaux.

Quentin had just won a jousting match when Josh walked up to him as he was removing his armor. Alice and Kady were helping him secure Saxon. “I have word,” he said. “Chatwin has been called back to the free companies. The Black Prince commanded it. He could be gone all season.”

At this news, Quentin ripped his helmet off and gaped at Josh. Unable to contain his anger, he threw the helmet at Josh’s feet and stomped off. “Well done,” Alice told Josh. Quentin’s mood had only grown worse since they left Black Hallow. This would not help.

* * *

Many miles away, Count Chatwin was in his camp, on the southern front of Loria. The skirmish was expected to be over soon, just a show of strength on Fillory’s part to make sure Loria stayed in line. Chatwin was not pleased to be taken away from tournament season, but it was part of his oath, to defend Fillory at his lord’s pleasure.

Chatwin was looking over a map, reviewing their latest positions, when Tick came up behind him. In his hands, he held several parchments. “The, uh, tournament results, my lord.” Tick seemed to not relish placing the papers in front of Chatwin.

Chatwin reviewed over every result - at the top, listed as tournament champion, for every tournament held in the past month - the crest representing Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein. Chatwin felt his hands quake, and turned to stare at Tick with such rage in his eyes that the herald took a nervous step back. Turning back to the parchment, Chatwin pulled his knife from it’s sheath at his side, and stabbed it straight through the parchments, into the wooden table, directly over Sir Ulrich’s crest.


	6. Chapter 6

Quentin paced the workshop, a red rose in his hand. It had caught his eye earlier as he walked through the village square in Carran, their latest stop on the tournament circuit. He had paid a few pennies for it, smelling the sweet scent as his thoughts, as they often did, turned to Eliot.

Time had allowed him to reflect on his behavior in Black Hallow, and he realized his mistake in letting his anger and his insecurities get the better of him. Too many times in his life he had let jealousy and rage control him. He was a fool, and he needed to at least try to show Eliot that he was sorry. To see if he had ruined any chance of having a future by his side. 

Quentin smiled ruefully as he thought of those stolen moments at the banquet in Rouen. In truth, he had thought of little else over the past month. Eliot’s soft lips at his throat, his lithe fingers at Quentin’s waist… too many nights he had come awake, his cock hard and leaking at the fantasy of Eliot coming apart in his hands, in his mouth. He had to try to make things right. Eliot had asked him to write. He only hoped he hadn't waited too long.

“Josh,” Quentin said as he paced, “I need to write a letter. Can you help me?”

Sitting on a nearby crate, Josh nodded his head and set aside his readings. “Of course.” Grabbing his parchment and ink, he asked Quentin, “How would you like to start?”

“‘Dear Eliot’,” Quentin said. “”No. ‘My dearest Eliot,'” he decided.

“Better,” Josh said, nodding his head, writing his words. Kady, Julia, and Alice all sat near, watching with interest. Well, Julia and Alice were interested. Kady was eating. Sweetbread, this time. 

Quentin thought about his next line. “I miss you,” he said.

Josh sucked in a breath. Quentin turned to him immediately. “Was that wrong?”

“W-well, it’s up to you, really. It’s your funeral. I mean, letter.” 

“Just say you want to suck his dick. Always worked for me,” Kady supplied, around a mouthful of sweet bread. Julia, who was darning a hole in one of Sir Ulrich’s flags, stopped her work and looked hard at Kady. “Well, it did!” Kady said defensively. “You know… a long time ago,” she added, averting her eyes from Julia.

“Well, you could,” Josh said. “But I would tend to look above his… dick.”

“I miss his... chest?” Quentin said. 

“He does have a great collarbone,” Julia added.

“Um… yeah. Still higher,” Josh said “Towards the heavens.”

“The moon,” Alice supplied. 

"The moon? The moon,” Quentin said, thinking back to their first conversation at the banquet in Rouen. Lifting the flower to his nose again, he took a deep inhale. “It is strange to think… I haven’t seen you since a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face.”

Josh looked up at Quentin in surprise. “That is very good,” he said, writing it down. Kady looked at Quentin, a new softness in her eyes.

Julia set down her sewing, a nostalgic look on her face. “I used to know this girl once who… well she broke my heart. I used to say that the pieces of my broken heart-”

_“- are so small that they can be passed through the eye of a needle.” Eliot walked around the dining room, reading from a parchment in his hand. Kady stood across the room, next to a serving table. When she’d arrived, Eliot had ushered her here, for privacy. It had been over a month since he’d heard from Sir Ulrich, and after their last meeting, he feared he’d never hear from him again. He had alternated from being glad Ulrich’s immaturity had been revealed before he got too attached (he was_ NOT _already too attached, he reminded himself), to being incredibly sad that he had not heard from him. Margo reminded him many times that he was not always the most mature individual himself, and that he shouldn’t waste time worrying about the knight. Eliot had returned home to Castle Whitespire, and had begged off travel to any other events. He kept up his spirits for appearance sake, but inside he was miserable._

_Eliot looked up from the letter, his eyes shining. “He writes as though I had died,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion._

_“Yes, my lord,” Kady said quietly. “He dies as well.”_

“He used to cook for the Duke of York,” Kady said, her sweetbread forgotten in her hands. “There were times when I missed him like the sun misses the flower,” she said, emotions playing all over her beautiful face. Meeting Julia’s eyes, she continued, “I am so lucky to have found such a deep love more than once in my life.”

_“I miss you like the sun misses the flower,” Eliot continued. Kady smiled to herself. “Like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter.” Eliot spoke Quentin’s words aloud, thinking of his soft smile, and the light that seemed to permeate wherever he walked. “Instead of beauty to direct its light to… the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has banished me to.” Eliot had never, not once in his life, swooned. But as the letter dangled from his fingertips, he allowed it. Just this one time._

“I next compete in the city of Coria. I will find it empty and in the winter if you are not there,” Quentin dictated, as Josh scribbled. 

“I like it,” Josh said. “And now, to finish it,” he said, looking to Quentin.

“With hope,” came the soft reply. All heads turned to Alice, sitting quietly on a bale of hay, her eyes focused on a knot of rope in her hands. “Love should end with hope,” she continued. “My brother, god rest him… told me something I’d never forget.” Her eyes focused on nothing, or rather, on someone only she could see. “Hope guides me. It-”

_“- is what gets me through the day and especially the night. The hope that after you are gone from my sight, it will not be the last time I look upon you.” Eliot’s voice broke as he read the last sentence, from either the sadness at the thought of never seeing Ulrich again, or the relief that he had not been alone in his misery. A loud sniffle sounded throughout the room. Eliot glanced over to see Kady dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. Looking up to Eliot, she wordlessly handed it to him._

“Finish it with - ‘With all the love that I possess… Quentin.’” Quentin smiled, the red rose still in his hand, as he imagined a happy reconciliation with Eliot.

Josh picked his head up from his writings, a slight frown on his face. “You mean ‘Ulrich.’”

The smile faded from Quentin’s face as he met Josh’s gaze, the flower falling to his side.

_“With all the love that I possess… I remain yours… the knight of your heart.” Eliot rolled up the parchment in his hands, bringing it to his lips as he closed his eyes and breathed in the closest thing he had to Ulrich._

_Kady was silent for a moment. Then, “My master hoped you might have something to send him in return.”_

_Eliot contemplated the request. Then he looked up to Kady and smiled._

* * *

Before he knew it, Quentin found himself in Coria. This was one of the larger tournaments on the circuit, a lead-in to World Championships. Coria was the capital city of Aubernia, a sovereign nation located to the east of Fillory. 

The crowds were large, the entrance area bustling with vendors moving wares to their tents, horses being rushed to stables, and knights setting up camp. Josh submitted Quentin’s patents, electing him to participate in the joust. Crests for all participating knights were hung in the area, and Julia, Quentin, and Alice were surveying their opposition.

“No Chatwin,” Quentin sighed, not seeing his crest among the contenders. A loud whoop interrupted his brooding. The group turned to see Kady approaching fast on horseback. She came to a stop in front of them. Julia rushed to her horse with a wide grin on her face. Kady dismounted, and the two embraced, Kady greeting her with a soft kiss.

Quentin inhaled a deep breath. He had been dreading this moment for days, while at the same time anticipating it with all his being. He wanted to go to Eliot himself, but travel was so unknown in these areas - they weren’t sure if he would have been back for the start of the tournament. Kady had made the trip to deliver his letter in record time. What news she held could break his heart… or make him whole again.

Quentin waited a moment, two, while Kady and Julia said their very… passionate hellos. Finally, Quentin could not stand it anymore. “Kady, please tell me. Did you see him? Did he read the letter?”

Dislodging her tongue from Julia’s throat, Kady pulled away from Julia, but still kept her in a tight embrace. “Yep,” she said, nonplussed.

Quentin was ready to tear her pretty dark curls from her head. “And????” he nearly shouted.

Rolling her eyes, Kady said, “He’s coming to Coria.”

Quentin smiled, relief overwhelming his being. He let out a whoop of joy, turning to Alice and embracing her. Alice yelped in surprise, patting Quentin politely on the back as he released her and turned back to Kady. “Well, did he give you anything for me in return? Did he - did he give you a letter? Or a token?”

At these words, Kady suddenly looked uncomfortable, refusing to meet Quentin’s eyes.

“He did, didn’t he?” Quentin persisted.

“Well. Yes,” Kady said, seemingly unwilling to part with any information. Julia gave her an odd look for her weird behavior.

“Well, what is it?” Quentin demanded. “Come on Kady, please don’t play with me. Not now.” He was practically begging, which Kady might have found enjoyable in other circumstances.

“Ugh,” she groaned. Turning to Julia, she said, “Sorry, babe.” Then she stepped out of Julia’s embrace, grabbed Quentin’s face in both hands, and kissed him on the lips. Hard.

After a moment, Kady released Quentin, and stepped back to Julia, who was watching with her mouth hanging open. Quentin looked very confused for a moment, then - “YES!” he cheered, his face lighting up again. Alice and Josh watched Quentin celebrate, amused and pleased. It was quite a change from the past month - a welcome one. 

Julia smirked at Kady, who had the grace to look a little abashed. “I think that was the highlight of my year,” she told Kady, who broke into laughter.

* * *

That night, Josh, Julia, Kady, and Alice found themselves in the local pub, having a bit of fun before the tournament began the next day. Quentin, not usually one for crowds, was off somewhere, _probably brooding over Eliot_ , Julia surmised. 

Thinking over the past few months, Julia reflected on what a changed man Quentin truly was. While she always knew big dreams lurked behind his awkward exterior, he moved like Atlas, the weight of an entire world held on his shoulder blades. When they had first met, both of them not even ten years old, Quentin, eyes wide and scared, was sadly waving goodbye to his father, who was sailing away from the rickety dock Quentin stood on. It wasn’t unusual for children to be given up to nobles for service- for many, it was the only way to secure any future beyond an early grave. She had laid down next to his bedroll that night, and told him a story her mother had often told her- of fairies, witches, time turners and monsters. Quentin listened intently, and when she was finished, he asked to hear it again. 

Never had he gone so long without a bad spell. She could always see them coming, a storm brewing inside his head that would soon break and leave him adrift. Her heart broke every time the sadness seemed to overtake him, when he thought he fell short of whatever impossible milestone he’d set for himself. 

She’d seen none of that in the past two months. He had turned what should have been a tragedy, the death of their master, into the grandest adventure she’d never dreamed of. His emotions got the better of him sometimes, particularly when Count Chatwin (and Eliot) were involved, but she had to admit that he, and herself, were the happiest they’d been in years.

Josh returned to the table, from where he’d been negotiating with a few men from Aubernia. The topic was not one Julia approved of… but she could see Kady was having fun. She fondly looked over at her; she was munching on mutton pie. Sitting down, Josh informed them, “Alright. The wager they wish to make is that an Aubernian, and not Sir Ulrich, will win the tournament.” Kady glanced at the men out of the corner of her eye. “However,” Josh continued, “the wager is fifty florins.”

“Well, that’s all we got,” Alice said, worriedly.

“Yeah, and if we had sixty, the bet would be sixty,” Josh said, with intensity. Julia remembered all too well standing next to a naked Josh... it was not an experience she wanted much to repeat.

“Ulrich against every Aubernian here?” Julia said with alarm. When she’d agreed to this, mainly to please Kady, she’d thought it would only be a portion of their earnings. Not the entire pot.

“Come on!” Josh said excitedly. “He’s won four tournaments in a row! And once again, Chatwin is not here.” The way Josh’s eyes were shining reminded Julia of Quentin with a lance in his hand, or on the Welter’s board - completely enthralled and high on adrenaline.

“I check shields too,” Kady said. “John Beaumont’s here. Count Theobald, Philip of Burgundy, all three Aubernian champions."

Julia looked over at the men wanting the wager. They were staring at their conversation, practically licking their lips. Julia didn’t like this one bit. One man suddenly caught Julia’s eye, and whipped his knife out of his side sheath. Stabbing the table, he said, “A Fillorian will NOT win this Aubernian tournament!” Giving their table a disgusted look, he continued, “Fillorian legs are unsteady on Aubernian soil.” He pulled the knife out of the table and tossed it down.

Josh and Kady yelled back - “Excuse me?” - “Shut your mouth!” The Aubernian’s continued to taunt them, with one flapping his arms and squawking like a chicken.

Fire in her eyes, Kady turned to Julia. “Come on, Jules. It’s a good bet! Win and I can buy my own tavern.” 

“I could write full time,” Josh pressed.

Quietly, as always, Alice said, “A forge for me.”

Julia rolled her eyes at the onslaught. She always had to be the adult in the room.

The voice from other table rang out again, “Yes, and also because Aubernian wine is too much for Fillorian bellies!” He patted his stomach as he laughed.

“Alright!” Kady slammed her hand down on the table, almost sending her food flying. “Listing, I’m about this fucking close, asshole. I swear to God, Quasimodo!” The man made a rather rude gesture back at Kady. 

“Listen,” Julia said. “I just wanted enough money to go home, and I’ve made enough for that trip a hundred times over.”

Again with the interrupting drunken Aubernian's. “And most importantly, because Our Lady Underground is an Aubernian!” The other men at the table raised their glasses in toast to his sentiment.

All heads at the table turned to Julia. Her eyes wide, she felt rage bubble up inside her. Standing up, she yelled at the table, “Yeah well, she may be Aubernian, but the Head Librarian is Fillorian. You’re on!”

Kady, Alice, and Josh cheered as Julia simmered at the table. The three Aubernian’s smiled in triumph.

“He won’t lose. Not with Eliot here watching him,” Julia said, grabbing her drink and draining it. 

Josh started up the 'fight song' they had made up for Quentin a few tournaments ago. Quentin had immediately sworn them to never repeat it, but they still broke it out when the mood struck them.

“He’s stout! He’s pissed! He’ll see you in the lists! Lichtenstein! Lichtenstein!”

The next verse, everyone at the table joined in.

“He’s strong! He’s tan! He comes from Gelderland! He… comes from.. Gelderland!”

* * *

“Do you think he will come?” Eliot asked Margo, who was eyeing the holy water warily. 

They were inside the main cathedral, a beautiful, huge structure built however many years ago. He had asked Kady to tell Ulrich to meet him here on the morning of the first day of the tournament. At this time, it was mostly deserted. A few other villagers were kneeling in prayer, or taking in the beautiful architecture. The early light of the day filtered in through the huge stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors upon the walls. Margo’s shoes clicked on the stone floor as she slowly paced in the large room. This was the only public building Eliot knew of near the tournament grounds in Coria, and where he knew they may not be disturbed. Eliot also felt they needed to really talk, and he hoped that being on sacred grounds would convince him to behave… although he didn’t have much faith in himself.

“If he knows what’s good for him,” she muttered, tossing her long hair behind her. She had been dealing with moody Eliot for almost six weeks now. If Sir Ulrich fucked up again, she’d have him out on his ass.

* * *

Quentin entered the cathedral, searching for Eliot inside. Seeing him a few paces ahead with Margo, he smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth it into place. There wasn’t much he could do for his clothes - he had to be at the lists shortly, and there was no time to change. His white tunic and brown riding pants would have to do.

Eliot stopped in the middle of the main walkway, gazing at a particularly colorful stained glass window. Margo stepped a few feet away as Quentin approached.

“You enjoy cathedrals,” Quentin said, clasping his hands behind his back as he stopped a few paces away from Eliot. As always, Eliot took his breath away. He himself qualified as a work of art; Quentin would choose to gaze upon him over any of the colored glass or marble statues in the cathedral. The sun bathed him in light, making him appear truly angelic to Quentin's eyes. The radiant shades shining onto the walls and stone floor complimented Eliot’s pastel clothing. To Quentin, he was a shining beacon at the end of a cold, dark tunnel.

“I come for confession,” Eliot said, still looking at the window.

There was a pause, and then Quentin said, “Wait, really?”

Eliot finally turned to Quentin, where Quentin could see a ghost of a smile on his lips. It was a stark contrast to the dark circles under his eyes. “Well. And for the glass.” He took a few steps forward. “A riot of color in a dreary, gray world. Don’t you think?” he asked Quentin, cocking his head.

Quentin sensed that while he had Eliot's favor, he wasn't completely forgiven. He had hurt Eliot with his words in Black Hallow, and it would take more than a few pretty sentences on paper to repair that damage.

“Beautiful,” Quentin said to him, his tone and almost desperate look to Eliot making it clear it was not just the window he was talking about.

Eliot rewarded him with a smile. “I feel the same way about the letter you sent.” He drifted closer to Quentin.

Quentin chuckled, feeling the blush on his cheeks as he looked down at his feet. Eliot was so close; he could feel heat start to crawl up his body. His mind was beginning to move in ways it shouldn’t inside of a church.

“Speak to me,” Eliot commanded softly, gazing down at Quentin. “Speak those words.”

Quentin looked up into Eliot’s face. The commanding intensity he saw there—the fantastic images it inspired in his mind—he definitely was not fit to be in a holy building right now. His head whirled as he realized what Eliot was asking for - more beautiful sentiments that he had written (or, rather, he and his friends had written) in his letter. While his heart was bursting with something he wasn’t ready to name for Eliot, he found that he was helpless to communicate it with words. But it was all he had available to him.

After a moment of wracking his brain and only coming up with images of Eliot's face in the torchlight, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I am going to win this tournament for you.”

Eliot’s smile dropped from his face. Almost chuckling, he said, “Excuse me?”

Quentin wasn’t sure what was wrong, but in the only way he knew how, he plodded forward. “This tournament. I’ll win it in your name. Every knight I defeat, I defeat for you.” He was doing the thing with his hands again; pointing at Eliot while he spoke to him in a loud whisper.

Eliot regarded him in silence, a look on his face of almost bewilderment. Quentin continued, becoming more fired up as he spoke, “Your grace will be reflected in - in the power of my arm! In the flanks of my horse.”

At that, Eliot’s mouth dropped open. Quentin heard a soft giggle from behind him, where Margo was standing. Eliot covered his mouth with one hand. “Wow,” he said softly after a moment. “Really?”

“Um… yes?” Quentin said, suddenly second-guessing this entire strategy.

“Really? It’s flanks?” Eliot continued, taking a few steps backwards from Quentin. Turning, he began slowly walking away. Quentin followed, unsure if he was supposed to or not.

* * *

Eliot stalked away, disappointment souring his mouth. He had been so sure Ulrich was different from the other knight’s that had attempted to court him - what he had felt at the banquet in Rouen, what he had read in that letter, that was real, he knew it was. Eliot, unable to help himself, had followed Ulrich’s progress over the past month, had heard word of his victories. Apparently all it took was winning a few trophies to turn Sir Ulrich into an arrogant, vain knight.

“I wish to hear poetry, Ulrich,” Eliot tossed back over his shoulder.

“Oh,” Ulrich said. “Um… I’m not ready.”

Eliot stopped in his tracks, and turned around to face Ulrich. Raising an eyebrow, he told him, “But I am. Why must everything be run on a knight’s schedule?”

Ulrich’s face had gone a bit pale, and he stammered out a response. “Well… I’m not saying it has to be… knight’s just tend to have very full schedules...” 

“Really?” Eliot said, his eyebrow somehow moving even higher. Did he not think that Eliot had a full schedule? That he just spent his days playing with his clothes and flowers like a 'silly boy,' as he had said weeks ago?

“Yes?” Ulrich replied. “Maybe? No…” Eliot shook his head and turned away, pacing away from Ulrich again. He could see some of the parishioners in the church glancing their way. From behind him, he heard, “Eliot, I’m sorry for what I said when we were last together. Please, how may I prove my love to you?”

At that word, Eliot paused and turned back to him. Love. What Eliot dared to hope he felt in his heart, but was too afraid to name. When Ulrich had written of it in his letter, the elation he felt scared him. It was too fast; they knew too little of each other. The last time he had thought such a thing, his heart was nearly destroyed a very short time later. 

He thought of the numerous tournaments Ulrich had won over the past month, of the many tournaments Count Chatwin had won before he promised to win one just for Eliot, as if it wasn’t something he was going to do anyway. “You ask in earnest?” he threw back at Ulrich.

“Yes!” Ulrich replied, spreading his arms and standing his ground. He seemed exasperated. Good! Eliot had felt that way ever since he’d been compared to a horse’s ass.

Walking carefully towards Ulrich, Eliot told him, “If you would prove your love… you should do your worst.” He could see Margo standing a bit behind Sir Ulrich, unabashedly listening.

“My worst?” Ulrich asked, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

“Instead of winning to honor me with your high reputation… I want you to act against your normal character and do badly.”

The words took a moment to sink into Ulrich. “Do badly?” he repeated.

“Lose,” Eliot said simply, crossing his arms and standing tall. He could see Margo roll her eyes at him.

No longer caring about the volume of his voice, Ulrich said, “Losing proves nothing! Except that I’m a loser!” Heads were definitely turning in their direction now.

“Wrong!” Eliot said back, not quite yelling yet, but definitely matching Ulrich’s tone. He started advancing on Ulrich, who began backing away as Eliot drew closer. “Losing is a much keener test of your love. Losing would contradict your self-love. Losing would show your obedience to your lover and _not_ to yourself!” Ulrich stopped backing away, and Eliot came right up in his face. 

“Really?” Ulrich said forcefully. Even though he was so irritated with him he couldn’t stand it, Eliot couldn’t deny that he still had a hard time choosing between smacking Ulrich or kissing him. The heat in his eyes, rage and desperation bubbling up… as Eliot felt his cock twitch in his pants, he reminded himself that he had chosen a church for a reason.

Margo cleared her throat loudly. Eliot took a breath in, and then said to Ulrich, quietly, “What is your answer?”

Ulrich moved his face an inch closer to Eliot’e and said, just as quietly, “I will not lose.”

Eliot stared down at Ulrich. “Then you do not love me,” he said. 

Ulrich held his gaze for a few more beats. Then he swore, turned, and stalked away.

Eliot stood there as Margo came up to him. “His horse’s flanks?” he said to her, words failing him.

“Well, maybe where he’s from it’s a compliment.” Grabbing his arm, she said, “Come on, dear. You sure do know how to make a point. I told you we needed to stay out of churches.” 

* * *

Hardly an hour later, Quentin was sitting on Saxon, fully outfitted, in the jousting arena. Josh was finishing up his introduction while Quentin contemplated his earlier argument with Eliot.

The man had hardly been reasonable. Expecting poetry at the drop of a hat - and then demanding he lose! It just showed how different their worlds were. Quentin had worked so hard these past several weeks to get to where he was - and he was supposed to just let it all go just like that?

Quentin caught sight of Eliot sitting in the royal box, pointedly not looking in his direction. Quentin could still see the sadness upon his face, even from this distance. Even now, in his anger, his heart soared at the sight of him. He recalled his first sight of Eliot, how the world had dropped away and all that existed were his hazel eyes and his soft smile. The token he had sent him, and their conversation at the banquet. The spell Eliot had cast, and the impression it left upon him. Quentin had done some research into the spell after Rouen, and it was said that the intensity of the reaction foretold the happiness that could be achieved if the souls were united. He knew that no matter how many tournaments he won, he would never truly enjoy his life or his winnings if Eliot were not by his side.

And that was why, when the jousting flag raised and his opponent (Philip of Burgundy, one of the Aubernian champions) charged ahead, Quentin cantered his horse forward a few feet, and then pulled the reins to stop Saxon in his tracks.

Julia, Kady, and Alice were yelling, trying to get Saxon to move forward. Once she realized Quentin had stopped Saxon, Julia asked, “What-what are you doing??”

“Losing,” Quentin replied, as the opposing knight drew nearer.

“I don’t understand!” Julia said.

Quentin sighed. “Neither do I.”

In the stands, Eliot watched the first pass. As Ulrich stopped his horse and did not move forward, Eliot jumped up from his seat, gripping the railing in front of him.

Quentin stood his ground, and let the opposing knight’s lance break upon his chest with no resistance. Julia, Kady, and Alice shielded their faces from the wood shavings flying towards them. Murmur’s of confusion came from the crowd at Sir Ulrich’s refusal to play.

Eliot flinched, closing his eyes as Ulrich took the hit. He watched as Ulrich recovered from the hit, shaking his head and adjusting himself in his saddle. Breaking into a wide smile, Eliot sighed loudly. ”He loves me.”

Sitting behind him, Margo dropped her head into her hands.

Down in the arena, Josh ran up to Quentin, now fully recovered and upright in his saddle. His entire group surrounded him and his horse. “Uh, are you blind?” Josh asked. “Did you see the flag?”

“Yes, I saw it, ok?” Quentin said.

“I know!” Kady declared. “I know. You-you wanna drop behind for a more dramatic victory, yes?”

Quentin sighed. Many members of the crowd were pointing at him, and he could hear catches of “he’s gone daft” or “chicken shit” among the spectators. “Look,” he said. “Eliot told me I should lose to prove my love.”

Those words hung in the air, as four sets of eyes stared up at him in disbelief. “Oh God, I’d rather you were blind,” Josh said, turning and leaving in disgust. Visions of gold florins, disappearing one by one, flashed through Kady’s head.

Julia tried to persuade Quentin. “Don’t be foolish, Q. He just wants proof, that’s all.”

“Proof of what?” Quentin asked.

“That his legs haven’t been uncrossed for nothing!” Julia whispered between clenched teeth.

“Julia, I haven’t… uncrossed his legs… really,” Quentin said brokenly.

“THEN WHY THE FUCK ARE WE DOING THIS??” Kady exploded.

“Because-” Quentin started. The sound of loud, urgent hoof beats interrupted him. In their discussion, they hadn’t noticed that the flag had started the next round. Lord Phillip advanced on them quickly, with little regard for the squires still standing next to Quentin and his horse. Alice yelled and dashed away, pulling Kady with her. Quentin braced himself, and Lord Phillip’s lance broke again upon his chest.

The crowd booed in disappointment at Quentin’s performance, or lack thereof. Kady and Julia approached Quentin after the hit, steadying him. Saxon stamped his foot, not pleased with the proceedings. Catching his breath, Quentin continued, “Because… I love him.”

* * *

Sir Ulrich lost four matches that day. Eliot watched every single one. He flinched with every hit, watching between half-closed eyes as Ulrich refused to counter in every match. While inside, he felt a flicker of regret for making Ulrich suffer so, his heart was so full that he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. 

“Isn’t it a little sadistic for you to be enjoying this so much?” Margo asked him at one point.

“Didn’t you once say that love is pain?” Eliot responded.

“Just remember, you damage your prize too much, you may not get to enjoy your winnings,” Margo said, as Ulrich took yet another hit to the torso.

* * *

On the sidelines of the arena, as Quentin met the business end of yet another lance, Kady was losing her fucking mind. “I’m going to lose everything!” she yelled at Josh.

“Well,” he said, shrugging. “That’s why it’s called gambling.”

As Kady and Josh argued, Alice smiled, looking up into the stands. Turning to Julia, she said, “It’s very romantic, though.”

Smiling back at Alice, Julia said, “Are you a woman or a blacksmith?”

“Sometimes I’m both,” she responded.

* * *

That evening, Josh was helping with Quentin’s shoulder - it had been dislocated at some point in the day. His body was the most bruised and battered it had been in months - while he had fought in many bouts, he had never taken so many hits in one day.

Quentin’s arm was strapped into a wooden contraption, and he held a knob attached to the end. His friends would take turns twisting the knob at the end, and his arm would be stretched out, attempting to help the bones fall back into place and alleviate some pain in the muscles. Well, eventually the pain would be alleviated. Right now it hurt like hell.

Kady pulled and twisted at the equipment, as Julia cast a healing tut to help Quentin recover. Josh carefully massaged his shoulders. Quentin gasped in pain, tears in his eyes, as his arm was twisted and tugged, trying to get the bone to snap back into place. “No one knight has distanced himself with victories yet,” Josh told Quentin. “If you win all your remaining matches, and… some of your opponents take key losses, who knows. You could make the semis. Even the finals!”

Alice was nearby, pulverizing a mixture in a wooden bowl. It was a healing salve, that, with a few enchantments, would help ease Quentin’s pain. “Well,” she said as she mixed. “At least the armor’s proven itself.” 

“And your love?” Kady asked angrily. “Have you proven that yet?”

Quentin looked up at Kady, guilt in his eyes. They supported him throughout this entire crazy idea. True, they did get paid well for it, but Quentin couldn’t help the disappointment he felt at failing them. 

“Kady,” Quentin gasped, as she twisted again, stretching out the muscles. “You remember the first time you did magic. The fear, the disbelief and excitement… that’s what he makes me feel.” Wide eyes met Kady’s, and she gave a harder yank on his arm. Quentin yelped in pain. “And for that,” he continued, voice strangled, “I lose for Eliot and no one else.”

“Quentin,” Kady told him, a hard look in her eyes. “That’s against our teachings.” And she gave a hard, strong tug. Quentin cried out again, then closed his eyes in relief as the bone snapped back into place. Kady released the bindings on the torture-healing device, and Quentin withdrew his arm, flexing his finger.

“Withdraw,” Julia said, dropping her hands mid-cast. “Lose that way. Just don’t take any more punishment.” Her voice cracked, her expression full of despair. She hated to see Quentin in pain, and was starting to hate Eliot for forcing it on him. 

Quentin’s face softened at Julia’s distress. “Oh, Julia.”

Margo suddenly appeared among them, standing next to Alice. Alice’s face lit up, and Margo smiled back at her, reaching out to gently touch her hand. All eyes settled on her.

Margo basked in the attention for a moment, then, “My lord sends this message. He says that if you love him-”

Quentin interrupted her. “Look, I know, I know. I must lose. Is he not watching?”

The smile dropped off Margo’s face. Pointing a finger at Quentin, she said, “You do not interrupt me, ok, pretty boy? He said that if you love him, you will not lose another match.” 

Quentin gaped at Margo, and then looked to the heavens. He had no idea that being in love would be so frustrating.

“He said that if you love him, you will win this tournament,” Margo finished. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned back to Alice. Alice smiled at her, and the two walked away, hand in hand.

* * *

The next day, Quentin sat atop Saxon, ready for his first match of the day. He saw Eliot in his same spot in the stands. As their eyes met, Eliot stood up, walking to the railing in front of his seat.

“There he is,” Josh said, gesturing towards Eliot. “The embodiment of love. Your Venus.”

“And how I hate him,” Quentin said flippantly, shoving his visor down over his head. He let his frustration and exasperation flow over him, and channeled it through his lance, to his opponent. At the flag raise, Quentin rushed forward and scored, while his opponent’s lance did not touch him at all.

Despite a solid day of losses, Coria wound up being Quentin’s most profitable tournament yet. Over the next few days, he unhorsed several knights, and even knocked one’s helmet off and into the stands. He crushed every opponent, and was awarded tournament champion.

Before every match, he looked to the stands and raised his lance to Eliot. As his body bruised and burned in exertion, a storm inside him surged towards Eliot, building towards a point where Quentin would be unable to contain it.

* * *

The night of the last day of the tournament, Josh met with the Aubernian’s at the pub. As he collected their money, he told them, “Thank you, gentlemen. A pleasure doing business with you.” He shook each of their hands, saying “Do look us up if you’re in Fillory for the World Championships, maybe.” At the sorrowful look one man gave him, Josh said, “Oh, don’t look too sad. Here, have a drink on me.” He flipped one silver coin at the men and left the pub.

“He’s quick! He’s funny! He makes me lots of money, Lichtenstein!” Josh sang as he walked through the dark, quiet fairgrounds. Campfires burned in front of many tents, the quiet blanket of dusk settling over the area. Holding his winnings in his hand as he walked, a tall figure in a long, dark blue cloak caught his eye.

Moving into a dark corner, behind the wall of a tent, Josh peered closer. He recognized the figure as Lord Eliot, and he was approaching Quentin’s tent. He smiled - it seemed Quentin’s frustrations were not for naught. He saw Eliot glance around, as if to see if anyone was watching, and then dart into the tent. Josh smiled. “Guinevere comes to Lancelot. Bed him well, my lord,” he said as he turned and headed back to find his friends. “Bed him well.”

* * *

Quentin was laying on a soft bedroll, shirtless, his ribs wrapped in bandages. His tent reflected his tournament success - it was larger than the one he’d had even a month ago, and he no longer had to share it with his party. He had his own pillows, his own soft blankets, and even his own sheet. 

Magic healing could only do so much, and he was left to mend with just his thoughts to keep him company. He wanted to go to banquet tonight, to finally spend some real time with Eliot, but the healer had insisted he needed to rest. When he protested, Alice had smiled and convinced him to stay put in his tent. He was pleased to feel the magical healing taking effect - his scratches were slowly disappearing, the bruises were starting to fade, and the pain was lessening, slowly but surely. There was, though, only one thing that would truly make him happy right now.

Suddenly, a voice came from beyond the veil of his resting area. A sheer curtain formed a wall between him and the entryway, and he had not noticed the movement of someone coming in.

“We missed you at banquet, Sir Ulrich,” came the rich voice, Quentin’s heart skipping at the sound.

Through the sheer partition, he could see Eliot remove his cloak, and toss it to the ground. He then parted the sheer curtain to fully enter Quentin’s makeshift bedchamber, dressed in a simple beige linen tunic and lightweight pants. Quentin felt his heart fill and body respond just at the sight of him. This was a more casual Eliot - gone were the finely tailored clothes and the perfectly coiffed hair. In their places were messy curls, soft stubble across his jaw, and a shirt that hung low on his neck with soft sleeves fell down to his fingertips.

“We?” Quentin questioned.

“I,” Eliot amended softly. “Eliot,” he continued as he stepped further into the room. “Your prize.”

Quentin smiled. “My prize,” he repeated. His smile faltered, “But I am not worthy of a prize.”

“Then who is?” Eliot asked, crouching low, next to Quentin’s bedroll. “My maid tells me that sometimes your varlets…”—he crawled a bit closer—“that they call you Quentin.”

Quentin swallowed thickly. He looked into Eliot’s eyes, hoping that this would not be the last time he gazed into them. Eliot, his face unreadable, stared back. “Is this so, Sir Ulrich?”

Quentin knew Eliot was not a fool. Their first banquet together, Eliot had cast a spell to tell him if Quentin was deceiving him - a test Quentin had passed only because his feelings for Eliot were the truest thing in his life right now. Eliot deserved to know who he was… and who he wasn’t. “Yes,” Quentin confirmed. “Yes, it is so.” He folded his hands on the blanket covering him, and, a bit terrified, waited for Eliot’s response.

Eliot gave Quentin a grand smile, one that lit up the entire tent. Quentin, aching, hurting, emotional, and yet somehow still aroused, gave a tentative smile back. Eliot’s eyes moved over his exposed skin like a caress, leading a trail of heat wherever they landed - up his arms, over his bare shoulders, to his neck, before settling on his lips. 

Eliot crawled up Quentin’s bedroll, coming to lay on his side. Quentin’s eyes followed him the whole way, growing darker and heavier. “Your name makes no matter to me,” Eliot told him, taking Quentin’s hand in his. “So long as I can call you my own.” He brought Quentin’s fingers to his lips.

“Eliot,” Quentin whispered. “I am yours.”

Needing to hear no more, Eliot reached forward and pressed his lips to Quentin’s, his hand moving behind his head, burying his fingers in his hair. As Eliot leaned over him, Quentin’s hand came up and cradled his face, deepening their kiss. 

It is said that after the moment passes, time can change a memory, leaving you coloring a pleasant beat with the brightest shades, or making sadder times more bleak. Quentin had wondered that maybe he had imagined their connection. That he wanted so desperately to feel love that the bond he remembered with Eliot wasn’t quite as life-changing as he spent many, many hours telling Josh and Julia. Maybe this wasn’t worth all the heartache and drama.

Now, at _this_ moment, Quentin knew his feelings of doubt were foolish. If anything, his memory paled in comparison to the intensity and passion overtaking his senses. How had he gone so long without Eliot’s skin under his fingertips, his smell in his head, his taste on his tongue? How, he did not know, but he vowed that such a grievous error would never be made again.

Quentin kissed him hard, pulling Eliot’s face as close to his as he could manage. Eliot leaned into Quentin, pushing him further into his pillows. He relaxed his body on top of Quentin’s—

“Aaah!” Quentin groaned, jerking his head back, hissing in pain. His free hand flew to his ribs, cradling his torso. Eliot retreated, eyebrows knotted in concern. He reached for the blanket covering Quentin, and pulled it back to reveal large bruises and tight bandages.

His eyes widening, Eliot said, alarm in his voice, “You’re hurt! You need a healer!”

“He’s been,” Quentin said, breathing deeply and relaxing back against the pillow again. “He said I’ll live, though to be honest, it doesn’t really feel that way.”

“Quentin, this pain is my doing,” Eliot told him, guilt filling his eyes as he took in Quentin’s injuries. Bruises, purple and yellow, marring his smooth skin, scratches and scabs that—thanks to magic—were already quickly healing, but still left ugly marks. They were all reminders of exactly how Eliot had demanded Quentin ‘prove his love.’

Eliot gently took Quentin’s hand, his other coming to rest on Quentin’s chest, softly stroking the exposed skin. Quentin could not stop the laughter bubbling in his throat as he reflected on the ride that had been past day—so many ups and down, and here he was, atop the highest peak, ready to freefall.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, his smile widening. “Although…” he trailed off as he met Eliot’s eyes. He pushed himself up into more of a sitting position. Eliot reached behind him and adjusted his pillows for more support. Quentin placed his hands behind him, bearing his weight as he leaned back a bit. “My father told me to take the bad, with the good,” he said, his eyes light. One hand reached up to trail Eliot’s face, from forehead to chin, then guiding him forward into a kiss. 

After a moment, Eliot pulled back. “And this good you speak of,” he said teasingly.

“Yes?” Quentin responded, his eyes on Eliot’s lips.

“That will be my doing as well,” Eliot breathed. He then closed the gap between them, deepening their kiss immediately. Ever so carefully, he guided Quentin down to the soft bed.

Quentin had been half-hard ever since Eliot had appeared in his tent, and as the full weight of Eliot’s body settled atop him, he felt his body respond so quickly it made him light-headed. He placed one hand on the side of Eliot’s face, the other moving on his back, sliding down, underneath his tunic until he felt warm skin against his fingertips. 

Eliot groaned into his mouth, whispering “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Quentin chuckled lightly. “If you think I’m going to let a bit of pain stop me from ravishing you senseless, you’re very mistaken.”

He felt Eliot’s answering smile, then a shift as Eliot, still keeping his lips on Quentin, pulled his body away from him. Then, the soft caress of hands pushing Quentin’s blanket down his body, out of the way. 

"I think for tonight, I'll be the one doing the ravishing," Eliot said tenderly, his body delicately settling half on top of Quentin. 

One leg laid lazily atop Quentin’s thigh, one of his hands caressing Quentin’s chest as they kissed, slowly, languorously. Eliot stroked his tongue inside Quentin’s mouth, swallowing his moans. Wanting more bare skin under his hands, Quentin shoved Eliot’s shirt up, smoothing his palm over Eliot’s warm back. Eliot slotted his thigh between Quentin’s, the friction triggering a rough gasp from Quentin.

In only a few minutes, Eliot had already wound Quentin up so much that he lost all sense of decorum. His cock already desperately hard, Quentin’s hips surged up and he wrapped one leg around what he could reach of Eliot.

Eliot chuckled at Quentin’s eagerness. He trailed his lips down Quentin’s jaw, and Quentin tilted his head back as Eliot sucked at his pulse point. Eliot paused in his quest to kiss every inch of exposed skin to reach up and behind him, pulling his shirt where it had bunched under his armpit, over his head. He tossed it off somewhere in the darkness.

Quentin’s eyes hungrily raked over Eliot’s body, taking in his bare chest and arms. Gently pushing on Eliot’s shoulder, he sat up, reaching behind Eliot’s head and pulling him into another long, hard kiss. Eliot carefully straddled Quentin, wrapping his legs around him, making sure to be cautious around his torso. 

Quentin could feel the tension in Eliot’s thighs as he attempted to keep his weight off of Quentin’s lap. He kissed Eliot’s chest, then his collarbone, making his way to his neck, chuckling, “I am not made of glass.” His hands traveled down Eliot’s back, to palm his ass, pulling him flush against Quentin.

Eliot let out a ragged moan, the sound sending heat and desire coursing through Quentin’s body. He could feel Eliot’s hard cock pressed against his, separated by the thin fabric of their pants. He ground his body against Eliot’s as they devoured each other, every movement fueling the flames inside him. Eliot buried one hand in Quentin’s hair, holding his head firmly in place as their bodies moved against each other, the other arm wrapped around his waist.

Quentin had imagined this moment so many times over the past weeks - and now that he was here, with Eliot wrapped around him, he couldn't get enough. He worked his fingers down the back of Eliot’s pants, shoving them down and palming his bare ass. It had never been like this intense, not with anyone. Even as his ribs cried in protest, the pain only gave a sharper edge to the pleasure flowing through his body. 

Eliot pulled away from Quentin’s kiss, gasping for breath. He leaned his head against Quentin’s forehead as the two tried to regain control. “Do you… do you remember the spell I cast, that night at banquet?” Eliot asked in a ragged whisper.

Quentin could instantly recall the lightning that had chased through his body when Eliot’s hand had first touched his. “Yes,” he replied. “It was right after I was trying to convince myself that jumping you at the supper table wasn’t a good idea.”

Eliot let out a sharp bark of laughter. Quentin’s entire body was on fire, he had never felt so alive. “Is it ok if I—if I cast it again right now? With you?” 

Quentin pulled away a bit, tilting his head up to look into Eliot’s eyes, a small smile on his face. “You know you don’t need to magically roofie me to get in my pants,” he cracked, one hand sliding up Eliot’s back, while the other remained firmly massaging his ass. 

Eliot tilted his head back, his eyes closing momentarily. “It’s not a drug spell!” he said, laughing. “I just… it was so powerful when we hardly knew each other,” he continued. “I can only imagine what it will feel like now.”

Quentin looked up into Eliot’s eyes, then leaned forward and kissed him. Pulling back, he removed the hand he had on Eliot’s back, and grasped Eliot’s palm. “Ok,” he said, interlocking their fingers. “I trust you.”

Eliot smiled warmly. Taking the opportunity, he first cast a silencing ward around the tent. Then, he moved their joined hands in the same tut Quentin remembered from that first night.

The air hummed in the same fashion Quentin remembered. A light dizziness hit him, and a surge of magic seemed to permeate from within, traveling through his body to where his hand held Eliot's. A warm, golden light grew from their joined palms, but instead of dissolving quickly, as it had before, it enveloped them, wrapping them in a heavenly light that settled over their skin. 

Images flashed through his mind; their first sight of each other in the square, hurried lips meeting in the dark, dark scowls during a fight in the morning light, a passionate embrace in the jousting arena, Eliot’s eyes shining across a filled cathedral, two half-clothed bodies cuddled under a dark sky next to a beautiful lake, Quentin's fingers moving in a magical medley—then, the light slowly faded away, leaving Quentin dazed, but so full of love and passion he felt he would burst.

Tears welled in his eyes as he realized the gift bestowed by the spell. The promise of a future more beautiful than he could ever hope to deserve. Looking at the object of his affection, he could see the same haze had overtaken Eliot, but as they stared at each other, Eliot's eyes cleared and he lunged at Quentin.

Teeth and tongues clashing, Eliot seemed almost feral. Pulling his body away from Quentin, he shoved his pants down, kicking at them until his ankles were free. His cock, so hard and already glistening, bobbed freely as he pulled Quentin closer to him. Magic, lust, and love all melded into one as he wrapped his arms around Quentin, pulling him in tight.

Quentin responded with equal fervor, working his own pants off as Eliot continued his onslaught. Finally free of any barriers between each other, Eliot pushed Quentin down on his bedroll, their lips meeting as Eliot’s hips ground down, feeling Quentin’s hard cock press against him. Eliot licked inside his mouth, hands roaming down his chest, and then pulling at Quentin’s thighs to wrap around him. Quentin couldn’t get close enough to Eliot; as they kissed and slid against each other, building to their breaking point, it only increased his desire to be completely consumed and ruined by this man who already held so much of him.

Eliot, a new plan seeming to form in his mind, slowed them down, pulling back a bit and slowing the intensity of their kisses. Then he reached between them to wrap his hand around Quentin’s dick. 

“Oh fuck.” The words fell out of Quentin’s mouth as just the grip of Eliot’s fingers was almost enough to make him come immediately. He breathed out hard and swallowed, his hands spasming as he fought to keep control. A shudder wracked his body as Eliot gave a few experimental strokes. 

He could feel a smile on Eliot’s lips as they trailed down Quentin’s jaw, stopping at his pulse point. His hands grasped at Eliot’s back as Eliot sucked a mark into his skin, Quentin’s whimpers and moans falling into the night. Eliot licked and kissed his way down Quentin’s chest, as the hand that was on his cock moved down to caress Quentin’s balls. His fingers spurring Quentin on, Eliot laved at one nippled, and then the other, before moving lower. 

Eliot took a moment to gaze at Quentin’s cock, standing at attention, a bead of moisture forming right at the head. He gave an experimental lick from the base to the tip, and Quentin rewarded him with a moan and a tight grip on his hair. “You like that?” Eliot teased, doing it again.

“Y-yes,” Quentin replied, his eyes closed, head thrown back against his pillow. One hand clenched the sheet under him, while the other kept a grip in Eliot’s hair. “Please don’t stop.”

Eliot dove right in, closing his lips over the head and giving a gentle suck. He licked and hummed around his cock, sliding his lips and tongue down the shaft before rising back to the tip. Quentin’s fingers flexed in Eliot’s hair as he fought to keep from falling over the edge.

“Let go, baby,” Eliot purred after a few minutes. “I’m not made of glass.” Quentin could hear the smirk in his voice as he parroted his earlier phrase. Then he slid Quentin’s dick down the back of his throat, his other hand still working his balls.

Quentin responded, his grip instantly tightening in Eliot’s hair, hips moving as he fucked Eliot’s mouth. Quentin forced his eyes open, wanting to see Eliot working his cock so completely. The sight of Eliot’s lips around him made him groan anew, and his voice was so raspy, he no longer recognized it. “Eliot, I’m gonna-”

Eliot doubled his efforts, humming and taking Quentin in as far as he could go, to the root. Quentin’s eyes rolled back in his head as his orgasm hit, waves of pleasure radiating through his body. He pulled Eliot’s hair hard as Eliot sucked and swallowed every drop Quentin gave him.

Gasping, Quentin gently nudged Eliot away as the sensitivity overwhelmed him. Catching his breath proved difficult as he was left reeling from the sensations running through his body. As he drifted back down from the heights Eliot had driven him to, Quentin wondered again how he had managed to stumble upon something so pure. Wiping away a few tears that had built up in his eyes, he turned his attention back to Eliot.

Eliot’s head was laying on Quentin’s thigh, one hand lazily stroking Quentin’s other leg. He began laying soft kisses up Quentin’s stomach, when he was unceremoniously yanked up the bed roll, plopped right next to Quentin, as close as he could be without actually being on top of Quentin.

Quentin kissed Eliot, hard and thoroughly. He could taste himself on Eliot’s tongue, feeling his cock jump at the saltiness. Amazed at the effect this man had on him, Quentin reached down to take Eliot in his hand.

Eliot’s cock was the largest Quentin had had the pleasure of wrapping his fingers around. Eliot grunted at his touch on the sensitive skin, burying his face in Quentin’s neck, clutching at him. Quentin pulled his hand away, looping the other around Eliot, palms meeting above them, completing a tut that left one hand covered in lubricant. Quentin grasped Eliot’s cock again, another moan filling the tent as Quentin’s slick hand wrapped and stroked him.

The position was a bit awkward for him, but Quentin continued his ministrations with gusto, eating up every gasp, whimper, and passionate exclamation that left Eliot’s mouth. As he turned his mouth to Eliot’s jaw, neck, ear, any part of his skin that he could reach, he almost missed the soft “Quentin” that fell from Eliot’s lips. Hearing his name, his true name from Eliot, sent renewed waves of desire through his body.

He chased Eliot’s lips, breathing harshly through his nose, thrusting his tongue in his mouth in time with every stroke of his hand, until Eliot became so overwhelmed that he broke away, gasping for breath.

Quentin felt Eliot’s body tense, his hands gripping harder at Quentin’s skin, until he came with a loud groan, his fingers pulling at the hair behind Quentin’s head, his come spilling over Quentin’s stomach. 

Quentin stroked him through his orgasm, until Eliot was spent. He released Eliot’s softening cock, and then performed a cleaning spell over his belly. He relaxed back on the bedroll, wrapping his arms back around Eliot and pulling him in close.

Quentin felt emotionally wrecked from the intensity of the evening. He clutched Eliot tight, feeling on the verge of tears, bouncing between blissfulness and realizing the enormity of what he held in his arms. This was it. His future had found him, and his name was Eliot.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Eliot whispered, his head resting on Quentin’s collarbone, nuzzling his nose up into his neck. 

“You deserve so much more than me,” Quentin whispered back, the hand wrapped around Eliot’s shoulders moving up to play with his curls. “I can only hope to have a lifetime to show you all of the love and affection you do deserve.”

At this, Eliot picked up his head and met Quentin’s eyes. Quentin’s heart, just beginning to slow, sped up as he realized what was about to spill from his lips. Before he could overthink it, Quentin said simply, “I love you, Eliot.”

Eliot’s eyes widened, and for what seemed like an eternity, those words hung in the air between them. Quentin searched his face, seeing surprise melt into adoration and love. And then, “I love you too, Quentin.”

They stared at each other for a beat, taking in the moment. “Is this too fast?” Eliot asked, a smile forming on his face. “I don’t even know your real last name.”

Quentin’s eyes were shining as he replied, “Right now I know no other speed.” Chuckling, he added, “And it’s Coldwater.”

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot repeated. “Not… what I was expecting.”

Laughing together, they kissed and cuddled. Tomorrow they would face more hurdles, and another, albeit brief separation. But for tonight, they had all they needed.


	7. Chapter 7

The boat rocked a bit, as Quentin struggled to make out anything through the fog. They had been traveling on the ship all day, and while the weather had been agreeable, a dense fog had settled as they approached shore. The torchlight danced along the water, slight shimmering waves gently directing them to their destination. A ball tightened in Quentin’s stomach as he stared at where the shore line should be, waiting for it to solidify in front of his eyes.

It had been two weeks since Quentin had last seen Eliot, a parting filled with kisses, hugs, and more than a few indecent touches. They planned to meet again in Fillory, at World Championships. Quentin, Alice, Kady, Julia, and Josh had boarded a rickety, but solid, ship, their earnings enough to allow them a more agreeable one than they could normally afford for the short journey. Fillory was only a day's travel over water, after several days' travel to the dock from Coria. 

Eliot had departed Coria much sooner than Quentin, on his family’s boat. Propriety (and his royal guard) would not allow Quentin and his team to travel with him, which Quentin assured Eliot was fine. They would see each other again soon enough. Quentin dreamed of Eliot nightly, and he counted the hours until they were reunited.

“How long has it been since any of you have been back?” Josh asked, as they sat in a circle on the deck. “I’ve only been gone six months.”

“Two years for me,” Alice replied.

“Three years from my eyes,” said Kady.

“Eight years since I last could afford a visit,” Julia said quietly. 

“Quentin?” Josh asked.

Still staring desperately ahead, he responded, “Twelve.” Twelve years since he’d seen or heard anything from his father, or set foot inside the township of Fillory. Even though so many years had passed with no contact, Quentin still thought of his father almost daily. “Twelve years.” He could remember the last time he saw him so clearly… leaving on a boat much smaller than the one he was currently sailing on.

_ The night was dark and foggy, except it really qualified as “morning” instead of night. Quentin and his father had spent all night travelling, from Fillory to some land across the water. Ted Coldwater had explained what would happen - he would go to live somewhere else, to learn to be a squire. He would learn how to ride a horse, and how to work and make a life for his own. And if he worked really hard, maybe one day he could be a knight himself. It made Quentin very sad to think that he wouldn’t see his father every day, but he knew his dad would never do anything to hurt him. _

_ “He’s to be an apprentice?” the boathand asked, as he readied the small boat, hardly more than a canoe, for landing. _

_ Ted Coldwater nodded in agreement, his eyes sullen and downcast. Quentin sat next to him, nestled as close to his side as possible. “How long for?” the boathand asked. _

_ “Seven years,” Ted replied, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. _

_ The boat docked, and Ted stepped onto the wooden dock, guiding Quentin alongside him. Ted clutched a bedroll. The few pieces of Quentin’s clothing were wrapped up inside. Together, they approached a man readying a horse and cart. _

_ “Sir DeGrey?” Ted asked. The man looked up at Ted, pausing his movements. “I’m Ted Coldwater,” he continued. “I spoke to you outside London Stadium.” _

_ Sir DeGrey nodded his head. “Yes, I remember.” Looking down at Quentin, almost hiding behind his father’s jacket, squinting, he asked Ted, “Is this the boy?” _

_ Squeezing Quentin’s shoulders, Ted nodded. _

_ “Well, step forward, come on. Let me look at you.” At Ted’s gentle prodding, Quentin stepped forward. Behind him, a girl a little older than Quentin banged a sword against the side of the cart. Sir DeGrey jerked his head back, and scolded, “Be careful with that, Julia!” Julia glanced back to Sir DeGrey and nodded, carefully placing the sword in its sheath. _

_ Quentin gazed up at Sir DeGrey, his eyes wide. He tried to stand tall and look tough, but instead his eyes kept jerking over to his father, his shoulders hunching in. His dad had told him it would be hard, but he would learn a lot. And he wanted to become a knight, no matter what. _

_ Sir DeGrey peered down at Quentin. “Are you afraid of me, boy?” he asked. _

_ His lips in a tight line, Quentin shook his head. _

_ Sir DeGrey glanced over at Ted, and then returned to his appraisal of Quentin. “Have you got most of your teeth?” he asked, gesturing to his mouth. _

_ Quentin opened his lips and bared several rows of slightly yellow, straight teeth, all firmly rooted in his mouth.  _

_ “Show me your arm,” Sir DeGrey commanded, flexing his arm, feeling his bicep muscle. “Do you have a strong arm?” _

_ Quentin mimicked the gesture, flexing and making a fist with his left arm. Sir DeGrey made a show of feeling the muscle, smiling down at Quentin. Then, he straightened up, and looked at Ted.  _

_ “Well, he’s a half-starved little scarecrow. But he’s got spirit.” Kneeling down in front of Quentin so they were eye to eye, he said, “I can show you a great wide world full of adventure… and marvels that you do not yet dream of. Can you pack my horse, and lead it?” _

_ Quentin looked at the large animal, then back to Sir DeGrey. Still silent, he nodded his head eagerly. _

_ Sir DeGrey straightened up, and then looked back to Ted Coldwater. “Well, come on,” he told Quentin. “Say goodbye to your father. Let’s get started.” At that he turned away and walked back to his cart, leaving the father and son alone. _

_ His eyes wet, Ted suddenly knelt down in front of Quentin, grasped his shoulders, and pulled him closer. “He’s a real knight, Quentin. Watch and learn all you can.” He stared into his son’s face for a few more precious seconds. Then, he pulled him into a tight embrace. _

_ “It’s all I can do for you, son,” he continued. “Now, go. Change your stars and live a better life than I have.” _

_ Quentin, still silent, nodded at his father.  _

_ Ted stood up, and met Sir DeGrey’s eyes. The look he gave him, full of pleading. Please, care for my son. Please give him better than I can. Sir DeGrey nodded solemnly at Ted. _

_ Ted turned, and walked back to the boat. Sir DeGrey called out, “Julia. Show the boy his duties.” _

_ Quentin watched his father walk back to the dock, and board the boat they had just stepped off of. “Father!” he called out, running to the edge of the dock . “I’m afraid!” _

_ “Of what?” Ted called out, the boat already drifting away. _

_ “I won’t know the way back home!” Quentin called out, worry and fear in his voice. Julia approached from behind him. _

_ “Don’t be foolish, Quentin!” his father yelled back. “You just follow your feet!” He then raised his hand and waved a slow, final goodbye. _

_ Quentin watched as his father faded into the fog. _

Quentin shook himself from the memory as something appeared on the horizon. Finally the Fillory skyline came into view - several buildings reaching back farther than Quentin could see, with cathedral peaks standing tall against the pink peach hues of the rising sun.

“Fillory,” Julia breathed, taken at the sight.

Quentin wiped his eyes, shaking his memories away. He was finally home.

* * *

The World Championships in Fillory was a grand spectacle, indeed. The opening event consisted of a lavish parade through the city - the same parade Quentin could remember watching with his father all those years ago. 

This time, he was a participant in the parade, instead of a wistful spectator. He rode atop Saxon in full armor, minus his helmet. The amount of people was staggering - they crowded along the narrow parade route, jamming every crevice behind the barriers. Quentin smiled and waved, his eyes always searching - perhaps his father was still here? It was highly unlikely - the odds were he had died, and communication had never reached Quentin, unreliable as it was.

His party walked alongside his horse, carrying flags and wearing clothing with his crest on them (a black moth on a golden background, they had decided, thanks to Alice). Their faces were painted in his “house colors,” all smiles and cheers as they shouted to the crowd. Quentin could see how happy, and proud they were to be here. He knew he never would have made it this far if not for all of them.

As he passed the very same stocks he himself had stood upon years ago (thankfully empty right now), he saw a boy standing atop them, much as he once had, waving frantically his way. Quentin smiled directly at him, giving him a thumbs up. The boy grinned and sent it back.

The parade ended at the jousting arena. The tournament site adjacent to Castle Whitespire was very elaborate - wooden stands were built around all sides of the arena, going up three levels high. Colorful flags were atop every possible pedestal, and the crowd was almost deafening. 

Each competing knight filtered into the arena, taking their place in a long line facing the royal suite. Quentin’s horse slowly followed Julia, as Kady and Alice took up the rear. Josh approached Quentin from the sidelines.

“I have news,” he said, falling into step next to Quentin and Saxon. “Chatwin’s here. He’s entered.”

“He must have grown bored with whatever war they’re fighting,” Julia commented.

“No,” Josh said. “The Black Prince commanded it. He was forced to disband his army. They were reveling the night, pillaging town after town. Robbing, murdering, ransacking churches. Committing the oldest sins in the newest ways.”

Josh and Julia led Saxon to a stop at his place in line. Quentin looked to his left, to see none other but Count Chatwin sitting astride his horse. He quickly turned his face back to the royal box, wanting nothing more than to see Eliot’s face. He had let Chatwin get the better of him once. Not again.

Unfortunately, Chatwin was not content to let things lie. “At last we will face each other again, Sir Ulrich,” Chatwin said, waving idly at the crowd. The battlefield had not changed him much, it seemed. Still the same jet black armor, the same smug face, and the same self-assured tone of voice. “And at the World Championships.”

Unable to resist, Quentin replied, “And as I promised you before, Chatwin, you will look up at me from the flat of your back.”

Quentin quickly found Eliot in the stands. He sat next to Margo, looking absolutely exquisite in a dark blue vest ensemble, very reminiscent of what he wore in Rouen. He and Quentin began eyeing each other in a way that left little to the imagination. Margo sat by Eliot’s side.

Margo watched the two stare at each other, whispering, “You may want to take the eyefucking down a notch.”

“Like you’re not doing the same with blondie,” Eliot whispered back, never moving his eyes from Quentin. It was true, Margo and Alice were definitely getting an eyeful of each other - or as much as they could, given Alice’s duty of holding Quentin’s crest. 

Eliot had spoken briefly with his father, testing the waters of a possible engagement on the horizon. His father had grunted and said he had some thoughts, but they hadn’t the chance yet to further discuss. No matter what his father’s wishes, Eliot knew who he’d be spending the rest of his life with. 

Eliot bit his bottom lip and gave a sly wink to Quentin. Quentin gave a broad smile to him, and winked right back.

Chatwin witnessed the entire exchange. Irritation flashing through his eyes, he said “Let the past die.” After a beat, he continued, “You’ve done well in my absence, on the field and off, so I’m told. Winning trophies, horses, men.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “You put them in that order?” he asked flatly.

“Generally,” Chatwin replied. “With a few exceptions.” Chatwin looked from Quentin to Eliot, and back again. “Gorgeous, isn’t he? A real thoroughbred trophy, don’t you think?”

Rage shot through Quentin. To hear anyone speak of Eliot that way would anger him, but to hear Chatwin’s voice dripping with disrespect caused him to clench his fists in fury. Swallowing the insults on his tongue, Quentin replied tersely, “You speak of him like he is a target.”

“Isn’t he?” Chatwin asked.

“No,” Quentin replied, eyes still on Eliot. Then, turning to Chatwin, he said, “He is the arrow.”

Chatwin smirked at Quentin’s response, and said, “I’ve begun negotiations with his father.”

Quentin froze, the ball of nerves in his belly hardening. He stared at Chatwin in shock, wholly unprepared. At Quentin’s expression, Chatwin continued, “I am to make him my husband,” he explained cheerfully. “He’ll be saddled… and placed on my mantle.”

Quentin clenched his hands together, knowing that attacking Chatwin right now would only do more harm than good.  _ It sure would feel amazing, though _ , he thought ruefully, as he tamped down the magic beginning to course through his veins. He could practically feel the battle magic wanting to spill out of him, from his fingertips into Chatwin’s face. “Target or arrow, it doesn’t matter,” Chatwin continued, oblivious to how close he was to Quentin blowing a hole straight through him. Or maybe he wasn’t oblivious and just didn’t care. “I will have him.”

Chatwin looked over to Quentin, anticipating a response. Quentin refused to give him one. He stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

* * *

Quentin’s first match was later that day, against Lord Leofrick. The air was absolutely electric - the size of the crowd and the stakes of the World Championships lent a new urgency to every bout. Quentin had to double his efforts to stay focused - to not allow the sounds of the mass of people and the knowledge that thousands of eyes were upon him sway his play. It was exhausting.

It seemed like in no time at all, the flag had raised, and Quentin was off, dirt flying from Saxon’s hooves. Quentin channeled his earlier rage at Chatwin into his hit, absolutely leveling Lord Leofrick. The knight remained on his horse, thanks only to his stirrups.

Count Chatwin watched the match from the first level, frowning as Leofrick’s horse trotted by with Lord Leofrick dangling loosely by his foot. “How would you beat him?” he asked Sir Fogg, an older knight who no longer competed, watching intently next to him.

“With a stick, while he slept,” Fogg replied. “But on a horse? With a lance?” he continued, as Quentin readied himself for another run. “That man is unbeatable.”

Chatwin watched Ulrich win the match soundly, his mind working. Months of practice had cleaned up Sir Ulrich’s approach and only increased his strength. He would need an edge to make sure that victory would be his.

* * *

That afternoon, though it was raining, Quentin took Thistle away from the tournament grounds to his old home, Cheapside. He had briefly seen Eliot after his final match of the day - only enough time for a few kisses and a hug in his tent while Margo kept an eye out. He had told Eliot what Chatwin had said, which Eliot had found very amusing. “If my father thinks I’m marrying that tightwad, he has another thing coming,” were his exact words. 

Quentin was not as unconcerned as Eliot. He had witnessed what happened to those who crossed nobility, and he knew he had been doing that for quite some time. He had started this adventure with nothing to lose. Now, as he and Thistle explored his first home in the rain, his stomach clenched as the voice returned, for the first time in weeks, at the back of his mind.  _ You have risen so high to only have that much farther to fall. _

Quentin leaned his head back and let the raindrops splash upon him; as though the water could wash away the worried streaks from his mind. The only things that were cleansed away were the dirt and sweat from his earlier jousts. Memories swam through his head as he rode past the familiar buildings - he remembered playing tag with his friend Charlton in the nearby square, and stealing a roll from the bakery. 

He stopped Thistle under a covering not too far from the old room he and his father shared. A little girl, her long brown hair in pigtails, was sitting on a barrel in the alleyway, playing with a little miniature wooden jousting lance - they were sold as souvenirs at tournaments. He smiled at her and said, ‘Hello, there!” with a little wave.

The little girl smiled at him, and then turned back to her lance. Suddenly, she looked back up at him and said, in shock, “You’re him! You’re Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein!”

Quentin, wiping the rain out his eyes, replied, “Yes.”

The little girl's eyes lit up, and a broad smile showed crooked teeth. “You’re my favorite knight!” she said enthusiastically. “When we joust,” she said, punctuating the word with a thrust of her lance, “I always say I’m you.”

Quentin smiled broadly, thoroughly tickled. “What are you doing here in Cheapside?” the girl asked. “There’s no parade today.”

Quentin looked around, considering. This little girl with a toy lance in her hand… reminded him so much of himself. Hunching down in his saddle, he asked the little girl, “Can you keep a secret?” She nodded vigorously. 

Quentin dismounted Thistle, and took a seat on an empty barrel next to the little girl. He leaned in conspiratorially and said, “I was born in Cheapside. Just around the corner there,” he said, pointing to their right, at a stack of apartments.

The girl’s mouth dropped open, and she gaped at where Quentin had pointed, amazement in her eyes. “Truly, Sir Ulrich?” she asked breathlessly.

“Truly,” Quentin said. 

“I only live just there,” she said, pointing to a building next to where Quentin had indicated.

“Well, how old are you?” he asked.

“Nine and one half,” she said proudly.

“Nine and one half,” Quentin repeated. “I wonder if you remember a man, though he may have died before you were born,” Quentin told her, daring to hope that he may get some information on his father. “He was as tall as a knight. His name was Ted Coldwater.”

“Of course I remember him!” the girl replied.

The hope inside Quentin bloomed larger. To hear something, anything of his father was more than he could have even dreamed. “You do?” Quentin asked.

“Well yeah, he lives there still,” the girl continued.

Quentin’s heart stopped as he stared blankly at the girl, his mouth hanging open. He then turned to look at the building where he had once spent many nights curled up next to his father, under one threadbare blanket. There could be no way… 

“Sometimes we see him sitting at the window, but no one knows why,” the girl said, oblivious to Quentin’s impending heart attack.

Quentin slowly turned back to the girl, trying to make sense of her words. “What - what do you mean?”

Quietly, she explained, “He’s blind, sir.”

Quentin absorbed this. His father was alive. And blind. And possibly only a few hundred feet away. His heart beating madly, his mind was overridden as his thoughts ran rampant, crashing into each other. What should he do? Would his father want to see him? Should he try to find him now? Should he go find Julia? He placed his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and breathed. Deeply. Slowly. And then he straightened up, and stood on his feet.

“Thank you,” he told the girl, giving her a few shilling from his purse. She squealed in delight, and sped off home, promising all the way to cheer for him. Quentin stared up at his old home, and without even thinking, his feet took him to the threshold.

* * *

Quentin slowly made his way up the rickety stairs. How many times his father and mother had yelled at him to stop running as he sped down them… they had lived on the third level. As he climbed the final small set that led to their floor, he could see that the door to their old room was wide open. 

Sitting there, in the middle of the room that was much too small for two people, let alone three, weaving an old fishing net, was Ted Coldwater. His hair was longer, much much grayer, and he looked so, so frail. Still, his fingers moved with a swiftness and agility that a man 20 years younger would envy. 

Quentin’s feet carried him down the hall, taking him to the father he had missed and loved every day for over twelve years. Dressed in an old shoddy tunic, aged work boots on his feet, a scraggly beard, glazed eyes looking off into the distance - he was one of the most beautiful things Quentin had ever seen.

Quentin stood in the doorway, bracing his hands on the aged wood. His last step creaked, and his father looked up towards the sound. “Is someone there?” he asked, his fingers still working on the huge net. It was held up by a rod that kept it taut while Ted mended it.

Unable to speak, Quentin simply drank in the image of his father, now an old man, here and alive. Very much alive. He wasn’t what he expected… but in truth he’d had no expectations. He’s never allowed himself to dare even hope this moment would ever come.

“If you’re here for the net, I haven’t finished yet,” Ted said, clearly confused. “Come back tomorrow.”

Quentin opened his mouth, but no sound came out but a strangled sigh. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Who are you?” Ted asked, staring in his direction. 

Finally, Quentin found his voice. “A knight,” he said, his voice deep with emotion. “My name… is Ulrich.”

“Ulrich?” Ted said, a slight smile in his voice. “I hear that name being chanted from the stadium. What business have you here?” he asked, curious.

“I have word, Master Coldwater. Word of your son.”

The change in Ted was instantaneous. He dropped his net and large needle, letting it fall to the ground. His eyes watered, and he gasped. “My Quentin? Well please, please, come in.” He gestured Quentin in quickly with his hands, a joyful grin on his face.

Slowly, Quentin crossed the threshold, never taking his eyes off his father. “What word? Does he live?” Ted asked hopefully, and dreadfully at the same time. He clasped his hands together, wringing them together nervously.

Quentin started to smile. “Yes. Yes, he lives,” he answered. Tears threatened to spill down Ted’s cheeks, the corners of his lips starting to pull up into a smile. “He is very well,” Quentin continued, taking another step closer. “He wanted you to know… that he changed his stars after all.” Quentin’s voice fell to almost a whisper.

Ted started to cry in earnest, his face turning red and his eyes closing, fat tears rolling down into his long, grey beard. Breathing deeply, Ted gasped, opening his eyes again, looking in Quentin’s direction. His mouth opened and closed before speech found him again. “And has - and has he followed his feet?” he whispered raggedly. Ted unsteadily stood up from his work stool. “Has he found his way home at last?”

“Yes,” Quentin whispered.

Ted reached out a hand, looking for Quentin, who stood a few feet away. Watching his father, it hit Quentin again - Ted Coldwater was alive. And blind. And he had waited for his return for twelve years.

Quentin reached out and grasped his father’s outstretched hand, placing it against his face. “Father,” he whispered, pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Quentin. My boy,” Ted whispered, hugging Quentin with everything he had. 

Father and son were reunited. They, along with the sky, wept tears of gratitude.

* * *

As the night hours passed, Quentin regaled his father with tales of his life. He told him of Sir DeGrey’s death, and his tutelage under Sir Mayakovsky. He spoke of his friendship with Julia, and how she had saved him from the darkest days of himself. They laughed over Kady’s quick temper and her relentless appetite. His father worried over Quentin getting hurt in Welter’s or in the jousting arena. He got to know Ted Coldwater as a man, and Ted got to know Sir Ulrich, as a knight. 

“I should like to meet this Kady,” his father laughed, nibbling on the remains of a chicken that Quentin fetched when they got hungry. “And Julia as well.” 

“You will, father,” Quentin said, chuckling. “You will.”

“And what of women?” His father asked. “Is there a certain one or many?”

Quentin smirked. There were some things his father was not yet aware of. “There are no women, Dad,” he said. “But there is one man.”

His father’s eyebrows raised for a moment, and then he chuckled. “I should like to meet him too.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as they finished the remains of their dinner. The rain had slowed to a comfortable drizzle, but the drops could still be heard on the roof overhead. Quentin looked up as a steady drop fell into the home from a small hole in the overhead. “Well, this leak won’t do, Father. Not in the chamber of a Coldwater.”

Ted snorted. “For a blind Coldwater, it’s quite fitting.”

Quentin, still looking at the leak, replied, “Well a Coldwater I am. I’ll fix it for you.”

Quentin walked to his father’s window, arching out and up to get a look at the roof.

He did not see, down on the street below, hunched under an awning, Count Chatwin speaking with a peasant woman. He did not see the woman point up at the very window he was leaning out of.  He did not feel Chatwin’s eyes on him as he picked himself up onto the roof, using some scrap materials his father had to plug the hole. And he absolutely missed the satisfied smile on Chatwin’s face as he purposefully strode away.

* * *

Early the next morning in their armory area, Alice was making some last minute adjustments on Quentin’s armor as he told her, Julia, and Kady about finding his father the night before. Quentin was scheduled for the first match of the day, against Chatwin, and he was still riding the high of last night. “Alive!” he told Alice. “I thought he was dead, which is mad, because he was always so strong. Very strong. I remember -” He stopped talking as Josh and Eliot made their way into the booth. 

Quentin did not notice the looks on their faces at first - which were very grave. Eliot’s eyes were red-rimmed, and Josh was the most serious he had ever seen him. “Josh! Eliot!” he greeted, with a smile. Then his smile faded as he really looked at them. Josh refused to meet his eyes.

“Did somebody die?” Julia asked, alarmed.

Josh sighed. “Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein,” he said somberly.

Quentin looked from Eliot to Josh, and then back to Eliot. “What?” he whispered, feeling the earth fall out from under him.  _ This is it, _ the voice whispered.  _ Don’t act like you didn’t know it was coming. _

“Chatwin…” Eliot started, brokenly. “Followed you last night. To Cheapside. He says he saw your father.” 

“Q,” Josh started, “They’ve asked me for your patents. They’re waiting for you in the lists. They’re going to arrest you. A dozen royal guards. They’ll put you in the stocks.”

At first, Quentin didn’t really comprehend the words coming out of Josh’s mouth. He’d had an amazing night, followed by an incredible morning, the prelude to what would be an amazing day. He was going to beat Count Chatwin, win World Championships, and sail off into the sunset with Eliot on his arm.

Except, that wasn’t what was going to happen. How could he have been stupid enough to think that would ever be a reality? So this was it, Quentin thought. This was it. He’d made it so far, really. So much farther than any of them had thought possible. He was Icarus. He’d flown too high, and now he would pay for it. 

He stared at Eliot. Had he lost him? He hadn’t… they hadn’t really discussed who Quentin really was. Eliot just knew he wasn’t really a knight. Now that he knew how much of a peasant he truly was...

Quentin shoved that aside. No. This wasn’t happening. “But I face Chatwin in five minutes time,” he protested weakly.

Josh was already shaking his head. “No, you forfeit. They’ve already marked it down.”

Quentin looked around him. Josh, Julia, Kady, Alice… Eliot. All staring at him, sadness… and pity in their eyes. A rage started to build inside Quentin’s belly, a fire he knew he would very quickly burn out of control. No one had looked at him in such a way in months. He could not stand to see it return.

“Saddle the horses,” Julia said commandingly. “They can arrest your baggage, not you.” She moved quickly to start gathering their things. Kady and Alice quickly joined her in readying Saxon and Thistle.

Quentin was left starting at Eliot, who looked back at him, sadness all over his face. It made Quentin’s heart ache to think he was the cause. Eliot took a step closer to him, his eyes bright as his lower lip quivered just the slightest.

“Halt,” Quentin said softly, not moving his gaze from Eliot. His friends stopped their frantic movements. Quentin spread his arms, gesturing around him, and then looking down at himself. “So,” he said, almost teasingly, to Eliot. “What do you think… now that you know what I am?” Quentin asked. Although in his heart he already knew Eliot’s response, he steeled himself for any possibility.

Eliot took another step closer, the worry never leaving his eyes, despite a small grin on his face. “To know what you are, Quentin, would take a lifetime. One I am most willing to give. But right now, you’ve got to run.” Eliot fixed him with a look so full of love and fear, it almost brought Quentin to his knees. As Quentin started to shake his head, Eliot continued, “There is nothing else to do. Run, and I will run with you.”

“Eliot, I cannot run,” Quentin said, the rage at the unfairness of it all flowing out of him. “I am a knight!” he said through clenched teeth. “I will put myself to the hazard!”

“A knight in your heart, Quentin!” Julia pleaded, tears beginning to track down her face. “Not on paper! Paper is all that matters to them!”

“Quentin, I love you,” Eliot said, a tear escaping. “I love you.  **You** . Quentin, Q, Sir Ulrich - whatever anyone calls you, I will call you my soulmate. And I’m sorry, but I will not see you led away, bound to the stocks.” He was having trouble controlling the volume of his voice, moving from whispering to almost shouting at Quentin in his frustration.

“But you will see me run? No!” Quentin rebounded hard, his helplessness overflowing. 

“Damn your pride, Quentin,” Eliot told him. “It is you and only you that will not see you run.”

Quentin was shouting now. “My pride is the only thing they can’t take away from me!”

Eliot was already yelling back over him, in Quentin’s face, “But they CAN take it from you. They can, and they will, Quentin.” His tears were overflowing in earnest. “Oh, they will,” he said. “But love they cannot take,” he continued, grabbing Quentin’s hands. 

Quentin sighed, looking skyward before focusing back on Eliot. “And where will we live?” he asked him. “In my hovel? With the pigs inside in winter, so they won’t freeze?” He squeezed Eliot’s hands in his.

“Yes, Quentin,” Eliot said, closing his eyes. “With the pigs.” A heavy swallow, and then, “The poor can marry for love.”

Quentin dropped Eliot’s hands, a harsh bark of laughter escaping him. “Oh, Eliot,” he said. “You speak of what you do not know!”

Eliot, his eyes pleading, “Quentin. I beg you. Please. Run. Do it for love.”

Quentin’s breathing came faster as he looked at the ceiling, at his feet, anywhere that would have a solution that did not involve his world crashing down on him. He turned to his friends, standing behind him, next to Saxon. “Julia,” he said, his eyes begging, “you would see me run?”

Sobbing, Julia met his eyes and nodded, then buried her face in her hands. Kady, her eyes tight, put an arm around her, wrapping her in a tight hug.

Quentin turned to Josh. “And you, Josh?”

Josh was already nodding. “Yes, I wish it too. With all the pieces of my heart,” Josh whispered.

Growing more desperate every second, he turned to Kady. “Kady? You and I? We aren’t runners.”

Kady had Julia’s head tucked underneath her chin. She did not resist the tears that leaked down her face. “Yes,” she said softly. “Quentin, today we are.”

“Run, Quentin,” Alice said. 

Quentin looked around him. Five set of eyes, imploring him to turn tail and hide. He had, in his hands for almost two months, knighthood. What he had dreamed off as a child. What had cost him twelve years without his father. What had carried him through freezing nights of hauling Sir DeGrey’s horse tack, through endless abuse at Maykoyvsky’s hands. The thought that one day, he may be right where he is. To have it so close, and taken away by the most horrible excuse for a human being. It wasn’t fair. And he was not going to let it happen.

“No!” The word exploded out of Quentin, fueled by years of broken dreams and lost hope. Eliot closed his eyes, his heart breaking. “I will not run!” Quentin exclaimed. “I am a knight,” he said again, looking to Eliot. Begging him to understand. Eliot met his eyes. And he nodded.

Julia extracted herself from Kady, wiping her eyes. “Well ladies. And men,” she added. “All good things must come to an end. Let’s end them together.”

Without a word, Eliot turned, striding away quickly. He had to find Margo. He had to talk to his father.

* * *

Quentin led the group, fully armored, in his colors. Kady walked behind him and to his left. Behind her, Julia led Saxon. To his right were Alice and Josh. They strode into the jousting arena, heads held high.

The crowd was gathered, eager for the first match of the day. Quentin shook as he passed through the anti-magic ward, the familiar tingle falling down through his bones. The crowd roared as they caught sight of him. 

He had barely crossed the entrance to the arena when the Royal Guard was upon them. A tournament official, clad in official red robes, led the group. He was flanked by several royal guards, in full armor and weaponry. “You will move yourself from this position of honor,” he told Quentin.

Quentin, stone faced, replied, “I am here to compete.”

The official scowled at Quentin, and growled, “You are here to be arrested.” He turned to the guards flanking him. He nodded to them, who seized Quentin at once. Kady tried to protest, but the guard immediately walled them off from Quentin. Saxon reared up, as Julia tried to control him.  The crowd, not understanding what was happening, cheered and booed at the theatrics

The guards walked Quentin off the arena, in the direction of the dungeons. Count Chatwin watched from the other side of the arena, a satisfied smile on his face. Tick stood behind him, eyes wide as Quentin was dragged away.


	8. Chapter 8

Quentin had only been locked in the dungeons for a few hours, but it already felt as though it had been days. He had his own cell, which was nice, he supposed. His hands were tied to a slim wooden log that lay across his shoulder blades, one on each side, and they had been spelled so he could not cast. The knots were enchanted as well - getting out of his bindings was near impossible. There was a skylight, directly above him - it was more like a hole in the ceiling, but he could see the afternoon sun overhead. All in all, it was on par with some of the places he’d stayed in as a squire. Minus the being-held-captive-and-tied-up part.

No one was allowed to visit him. He’d sworn he’d heard Eliot’s voice earlier, loud and desperate, but it had been silenced so quickly he couldn’t be sure. He had been thinking of their time together in Coria, the possible glimpses into the future the spell had shown him. He knew that those treasured fragments were only possibilities, and fate could change what was to come just as easily as the moon swayed the tides. He thought of the Quentin of three months ago. If he had been locked in a cell as he was now, what would he have done? The truth is he probably would have given up. Sat down, curled into a ball, and waited for the end. Maybe he would have even welcomed it.

But Quentin today? The Quentin that had tasted true victory? The Quentin who chased a dream and actually fucking caught it? The Quentin who knew he had people that loved him enough to give their lives for him? He knew that, as sure as the sun’s warmth upon his face, they were working tirelessly to get him out. This Quentin knew that there was a way. He just had to find it. Or be open to letting it find him.

He felt more than heard his cell door open and shut behind him, the loud squeal of the iron door permeating his bones. Heavy footsteps moved around him as his visitor walked into his field of vision. It was no surprise to Quentin to see Chatwin’s face appear before him. Assholes like him could never resist a good gloat.

“He that strives to touch a star… oft stumbles at a simple straw,” Chatwin said, approaching Quentin. Quentin refused to meet his eyes, instead staring at the wall. 

Chatwin moved his face closer to Quentin’s, a foot or so away. Quentin, with his hands tied, felt extremely vulnerable. But he would not give Chatwin the satisfaction of knowing it. “You have been weighed,” Chatwin whispered, his breath ghosting over Quentin’s cheek. He then drove his fist into Quentin’s side.

Quentin cried out in pain, hunching over and stumbling. “You have been measured,” Chatwin said, forcefully backhanding Quentin across his face. Quentin’s head spun into the log on his back, the woody scent hanging in his nose as pain roared through his face. Still, he stayed on his feet.

“And you have been found wanting,” Chatwin concluded, punching Quentin right in the gut. Pain bloomed in his belly as he breathed through it. He felt what little contents in his stomach threatening to come up. “It’s one loss or another... Quentin.”

Quentin still refused to meet his eyes. He straightened up, defying the pain that tried to keep him bowled over. He looked at the wall and saw nothing.

Chatwin grabbed his face, and forced Quentin to look directly at him. “In what world could you have ever beaten me?” he asked. The two men stared at each other, defiance still in Quentin’s eyes. Chatwin again delivered a heavy blow to his gut.

This time, Quentin fell to a knee, breathing heavily. Chatwin stood over him for a moment, and then left, the door again screeching loudly.

Quentin allowed himself to fall into a sitting position as he breathed through the pain. The aches in his body started to scream louder with every passing moment. He moved backwards, to the wall, allowing himself a moment to rest against it. Staring up into the bright blue sky, he willed the tears not to come.

* * *

It was not too much later that Quentin was moved to the stocks outside the tournament grounds - the same ones he had stood upon as a child. The wooden structure kept his head and hands secured as his legs, growing weaker by the minute, struggled to support him. Royal guards stood on each side of him. A crowd had gathered - word had spread that Sir Ulrich was nothing but a measly peasant, lying to everyone for glory and riches. From the whispers that Quentin could hear from his post, they were not sympathetic to his plight.

Quentin heard soft footsteps. Looking to his right as best he could, he saw Julia standing next to him. In her hand she held a heavy wooden stick. Her beautiful face was contorted in rage as she stared at the crowd, which was beginning to become rowdy. “Leave, Julia,” Quentin told her. “Let them have me.”

Julia looked at him. “Gods love you, Quentin,” she said, her tears dry. “So do I.”

Kady came striding through the crowd, Alice hot on her heels. “Go!” she yelled, standing in front of Quentin. “Disperse. Or I will make you regret coming here!” As her hands started moving, Alice took a spot on the other side of Quentin, a hammer in each hand.

“Kady, no!” Quentin yelled. “Please. If you hurt any of them, you wind up right next to me. Please do not put that on my head.”

At his words, Kady paused, turning to look at him. The Royal Guard took a warning step towards her. Kady dropped her hands, and began loudly cursing at the crowd. Some cursed back, some sent rude hand gestures her way. It just fueled her more.

Josh, his eyes red, stepped up behind Kady. The crowd began to yell and push slightly forward. Kady backed up, falling into a line with Josh. “We’re in trouble,” she told him. 

“Listen to me!” Josh yelled, attempting to gain some control. A celery stalk flew out from the crowd, hitting Josh right in the thigh. 

“Guys,” Quentin said, his hands still attempting to move with his words even though they were locked between two thick wooden boards . “You’re just going to get yourselves hurt. I’ve caused enough trouble for you. Please just leave me and protect yourselves.”

They ignored him as the crowd began throwing more food in earnest. Celery, lettuce, tomatoes began to fly their way. “Listen to me!” Josh cried again, as the crowd grew louder.

Four cloaked figures then stepped out from the crowd. The one in front removed his hood, and the other three behind him did the same. The front figure then removed his cloak completely and threw it to the ground, revealing himself to be Prince Edward. The Black Prince. Or, as Quentin had once known him, Sir Thomas Colville.

Josh was the first to notice him. He blinked, not comprehending what was in front of his face. The other cloaked figures were the Prince’s guards, and they removed their swords, holding them in front of them with points digging into the ground. Prince Edward stepped forward, towards Quentin and his group. As the crowd realized who had appeared before them, a hush fell over the area.

Quentin’s friends all quickly bowed their heads, but refused to move away from Quentin. Prince Edward smiled at them and then walked over to Quentin. He leaned in close to speak to him.

“What a pair we make, huh?” he chuckled. Quentin tilted his head up as best he could to see the Prince’s face. “Both trying to hide who we are,” the Prince continued. “Both unable to do so.”

As Quentin met the Prince’s eyes, that same feeling of camaraderie Quentin felt when the Prince had asked him to draw the match swelled in his chest. Somewhere deep inside, Quentin’s flame of hope blazed higher.

Prince Edward looked to Julia and Kady, standing fiercely to Quentin’s right. To Josh, standing before them. On Quentin’s left, Alice, daring anyone to come near her. “Your men love you,” the Prince said. “If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough,” he finished, looking back to Quentin. A rueful smile on his face he finished, “But you also tilt, when you should withdraw. And that is knightly too.” 

The Black Prince took a large step back. “Release him!” he proclaimed. Quentin gaped at him, wanting to believe, but fearing it as well. The Royal Guard moved quickly to comply, unlocking the stocks and lifting the heavy top board. Quentin pulled his head out of the way of the device, and Julia grabbed his hand, steadying him and guiding him down the steps of the platform he had been displayed on. Prince Edward began addressing the crowd.

“He may appear to be of humble origins... but my personal historians have discovered that he descends from an ancient royal line.” Prince Edward’s voice was full of authority, his natural grace taking over as he spoke as though he was addressing his army. Quentin, weakened from his beating and a day of being tied down, was held up by Julia on one side, and Josh on the other. Kady stood protectively behind him.

Quentin listened, unsure of what was happening. What Prince Edward was saying… the crowd responded, murmurs of astonishment making its way across the area.

“This is my word,” he said gravely. “And as such is beyond contestation.” More whispers at that.

“Now…” Prince Edward turned to face Quentin. “If I may repay the kindness you once showed me. Take a knee,” he said, motioning to the ground.

Quentin had, many many times throughout his childhood and then his entire adult life, imagined being knighted. His mind had conjured up a grand throne room, with a king and a queen, a large crowd, a weeping significant other (maybe several), his dad watching proudly, as he knelt before the king in his armor and his colors. Or maybe it would happen after an extraordinary show of courage on the battlefield. Wounded and bloodied, surrounded by his fellow soldiers, a prince or king rewarding him for his heroic deeds.

Never had he imagined that he would barely be able to stand on his own, covered in dirt and grime, having just been arrested and beaten, one of the lowest lows of his life, as the moment when he would achieve his wildest dream.

But here he was.

His body shaking, again he felt outside of himself. Hovering above the crowd, watching someone else lean heavily on Josh, while they stared wide-eyed at Prince Edward. The incredible reality rained down on him like a storm crashing on the shore. Prince Edward gave Quentin a nod, confirming that  _ yes, this was happening. _

Josh guided him down one more step, and Quentin steadied himself, releasing Josh’s arm and Julia's hand. He heard Josh give a sharp inhale, almost a sob. He registered the sound of Julia weeping beside him.

A little wobbly, but still strong, Quentin knelt before Prince Edward. Josh sat down heavily on the platform Quentin had just been imprisoned on. The Prince reached to his waist, and withdrew his long sword. He held it aloft before Quentin.

“By the power vested in me by my father, High King Edward… and by all the witnesses here,” he said loudly, looking over the swarm of people crowding in the area, “I dub thee -” he tapped the sword once on each of Quentin’s shoulders,”- Sir Quentin.” 

The crowd, now suddenly back on Quentin’s side after pelting him with produce, cheered wildly. Julia only sobbed louder, and Kady broke into the biggest smile her face had ever seen. Josh sat silently, his eyes closed, his chin in his hands. Alice smiled happily.

Quentin remained on his knees, his hands trembling. He had done it. He had taken it. With the tip of a lance. With the love of his friends. With the faith of his father. With a strength all his own.

Prince Edward held up his palm, and the crowd fell silent. Holding his hand out to Quentin, he said, “Arise… Sir Quentin.” 

Quentin stared at the proffered hand, and then looked up into Prince Edward’s face. He knew he would gladly follow this man into any battle. He grasped the Prince’s hand, and, a bit unsteadily, climbed to his feet. 

The Prince, still grasping his outstretched palm, asked him, “Can you joust?”

Quentin couldn’t have heard him correctly, “What?”

The Prince gave him an almost cheeky grin. “There’s my tournament to finish. Now, are you fit to compete, or shall the forfeit stand?”

Quentin took in a deep breath through his nose. The adrenaline coursed through his veins. “Oh, I’m fit,” he said, with the most resolution he had ever held within him.

The Prince nodded. “I shall have your opponent informed of it.” Quentin imagined this was the same tone of voice the Prince talked to his enemies with - serious and deadly. “You look for his shield on the lists. At once.”

Julia and Kady were already moving to the arena. “Thank you, my lord,” Quentin whispered. His body was weak, but Quentin felt like he could scale a mountain. He turned and followed his friends.

Prince Edward watched him go, smiling.

* * *

Word had spread quickly that Sir Ulrich was now Sir Quentin - and no one wanted to miss him take on Count Chatwin. The size of the crowd was the largest Fillory had ever seen, and the tension in the arena was so thick you could almost grasp it in your fingers.

Prince Edward took his seat in the royal box, in a large, ornate wooden chair fashioned to appear like a throne. He held the hand of his wife, Princess Fen, as she sat in a similar seat next to him. They exchanged a warm smile. Margo sat on a long bench to their right, but Eliot was nowhere to be seen.

Tick had the audience’s attention, well, as most he could, to introduce Count Chatwin. 

“My lords, my ladies,” he called with pride, “...and all you other people,” he continued, turning briefly away from the royal box. “I give you the son of Philippe de Vitry, the son of Gilles …”

Count Chatwin had been irate to hear that the fraud known as Sir Ulrich had been granted a knighthood. Although he really shouldn’t have been surprised. The Prince had disbanded Chatwin’s army, threatening to have him thrown in the stocks for his men’s behavior in Loria. The Prince knew nothing on how to establish and hold a territory. It was a pity the monarch was destined to be ruled by such a weak man.

Chatwin had also been informed that the Waugh family was not interested in attaching their family name to his, and as such, his pending engagement was dead in the water. It was of no matter. He had no shortage of potential suitors, and he would find another suitable for a man of his status. Today, he would focus on one thing - reminding Quentin Coldwater ( _ really, how can anyone take a knight named Coldwater seriously? _ ) that he had come from nothing, and he would die as nothing.

Chatwin made a few last adjustments to his horse’s tack, as one of his varlets approached with the broken tip of a lance. The coronal on end, meant to blunt the lance, was crafted into the shape of a fist, one of his favorite designs. He handed it to Chatwin. 

“Are you sure?” Chatwin asked, examining the lance tip.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s nothing but spun sugar and boot black.”

Chatwin nodded. Then he wrapped his fingers around the small fist, and squeezed. The simple covering gave easily under his grip, uncovering a sharp, metal point fashioned on to the end of wooden lance.

This would be Sir Quentin’s first, and last joust. Chatwin would make sure of it.

* * *

In the span of twenty-four hours, Quentin had reunited with his long-lost father, been arrested, locked up, beaten, locked up again (in the stocks this time), had food thrown at him, released, and then knighted. Now he was about to face his harshest challenger yet in the joust. This was, indeed, an exciting day.

He sat atop Saxon on his side of the arena, having gotten his gear on in record time. The stands were absolutely overflowing with spectators - he’d never seen so many people crammed into one space before. And he was not here in front of them as Sir Ulrich, not as a fraud... but Sir Quentin Coldwater. This was real. He was legitimate. And he could not be more pleased that his first contest as a legitimate knight was against Count Chatwin.

He was scanning the stands, hoping to see Eliot, when Josh’s voice reached him. “It’s a small target, Q,” Josh said as he handed him his lance, “but aim for his heart.” Quentin smiled down at him and continued his perusal of the stands. He made eye contact with Margo, who shrugged in apology, gesturing to the empty seat next to her. His heart shrunk a bit inside his chest. 

Tick finished up his introduction, and the crowd cheered, anxious for the match to begin. Quentin pushed aside all thoughts of Eliot, and focused on his mark. Saxon pranced a bit - Quentin thought he was just as anxious as he was to get things going.

Chatwin moved into position, and an official, holding the starting flag, moved to the middle of the arena.

Quentin looked solidly forward, focusing only on his opponent. His heart raced as adrenaline coursed through his veins—he knew that rush would be key to keeping him going, as he could already feel the weariness from the events of the day seeping into his bones. He threw off any semblance of tiredness, and embraced this moment. He was a knight. He belonged here.

The flag raised, and both horses erupted forward. The rallying cries of his party, Julia, Kady, and Alice, rang in his ears as he and Saxon thundered down the straightaway. His lance held straight and true, his eyes solidly on Chatwin as he grew closer, the dirt flying up from Saxon’s hooves, Quentin thrust his lance out just as Chatwin reached him—and Quentin cried out as intense pain exploded in his right shoulder. His lance fell helplessly to the ground, unbroken.

He gasped, his breath catching in his throat as he looked down to see a length of wood, almost a foot long, protruding from his shoulder. It had been driven straight through his armor, and was now embedded in his skin. The pain was unreal, his eyes watering as he struggled to comprehend what had happened.

An official placed a white flag on Chatwin’s side, as Chatwin thrust his broken lance up in celebration.

His friends surrounded him as Quentin feebly grasped the wooden tip. Pain irradiated from his shoulder, even with just a simple nudge from his fingers. 

“Oh, God,” Julia breathed as she got a good look at his injury. “I’ll fetch the healer, Q,” she said as she looked around for one.

“Julia,” Quentin gasped. “You’re the healer now.”

Julia looked at Quentin, then back to the injury. Her eyes bright, she couldn’t even cast a spell to take some pain away due to the wards. Her fingers shaking, she wrapped one hand carefully around Quentin’s arm to brace, and the other around the wooden stake. Quickly, she yanked it out of his shoulder.

Quentin yelped in pain, grimacing and breathing deeply. Julia handed the wooden bit to Alice, who stared at it, eyes wide in disbelief.

“He’s tipped it,” she said, the protruding metal bit covered in Quentin’s blood.

_ No shit _ , Quentin thought. Looking around, he could see the officials moving into place. If they took too long to get back into position, it would be considered a forfeit.

“Alice, get me back to one,” he told her. Alice thrust the bloody wooden stick into Kady’s hands, and guided Saxon into place.

Josh walked up to Kady, both of them staring at the lance tip. 

“That dirty son of a bitch!” Kady’s fingers twitched, the force of the ward almost gagging her as she tried to tamp down the rage quelling inside her.

His shoulder trickling blood, Quentin took a new lance from Julia. Every movement sent shockwaves of pain throughout his body, and streaks of light appeared in front of his eyes. He could barely grip the lance, but as Quentin stared down the arena at Chatwin, he knew he would die before withdrawing.

Again the flag raised, and again the men stormed towards each other. Chatwin held his lance aloft, aiming directly for Quentin’s heart. 

Quentin struggled. Every bounce on his horse sent sparks of pain directly into his shoulder. He couldn’t hold the lance straight, and his head lolled a bit to the side. It was growing more difficult to see through his visor. The heat in his armor felt overbearing, and as the horses moved closer, the lance fell from Quentin’s gloved hand.

The next moment pain exploded anew in Quentin’s torso as Chatwin’s lance broke against his chest. Quentin's upper half flew backwards against Saxon, his arms spread wide and his vision whiting out. His stomach was heaving as the officials allotted another point to Chatwin.

Julia and Kady got to him first, with Alice right behind them.. “Alice, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.” Quentin struggled to get the words out as he felt his armor was strangling him. Alice quickly reached up and helped him get his visor off, and then disconnected one of his shoulder plates.

Quentin did not notice that Chatwin had cantered up to them until he heard his voice. “As I said, Coldwater”—he dragged out his name as if it was the most degrading thing he had tasted on his tongue that day—”In what world could you have ever beaten me? Such a place does not exist.”

Quentin had no room for breath in his mouth, let alone a retort. It made no matter as Josh ran up to him —”He’s here, Quentin.”

At this, Quentin’s head snapped to Josh. “And so is your father,” Josh finished, gesturing to the royal box.

Quentin followed Josh’s hand, and the pain seemed to be cut in half instantly. There, sitting next to Prince Edward and his wife, was Margo and Eliot. Eliot’s hand was clutching the palm of the man sitting next to him - a very bedraggled, dirty, and smiling Ted Coldwater.

His father was here. Eliot had not forsaken him. Quentin had thought his heart could not take any more emotional upheaval, but he was wrong. His vision cleared as he saw the worry and love in Eliot’s eyes, and the throbbing in his shoulder pulsed less as he watched his father stare blankly ahead, seeing nothing but meaning everything.

Chatwin remained next to Quentin, observing the exchange. Quentin met his eyes, amazed at the fear he saw shining back at him. How had he not seen it before? Leaning close, he whispered, “Let’s dance, you and I.”

Alice, Julia, and Kady led Saxon and Quentin back to the starting position. “It’s two lances to none,” Julia said as they made their way across the arena. “You must unhorse him or kill him. It’s the only way to win.”

While the thrill of seeing his father and Eliot had made him forget the pain, the throbbing in his shoulder returned with a vengeance with every step Saxon took. He only had to make it for five more minutes. Five more minutes that had to contain his strongest work in the joust yet. In five more minutes, he could be dead.

He remembered when he was standing over Sir Mayakovsky’s corpse, thinking he may soon starve to death. He had put all of his faith in something that he felt had failed him over and over again - himself. And he had prevailed. He would again today.

Alice removed Quentin’s chest plate, meaning to place more padding underneath it for Quentin’s next run. “No,” Quentin told her. “Leave it off. I can’t breathe with it on.”

Eyes wide, Alice looked to Julia. This was almost certain suicide. Julia looked at Quentin, a hard, loving, sad, proud, enraptured look. And then she nodded at Alice. 

Quentin held his right arm, the one he held his lance in. It was continually shaking, and had started to go a bit numb. He flexed his fingers, and then reached for his lance from Kady. She placed it in his outstretched fingers, and before she could even fully release it, Quentin was grunting in pain. “No,” he gasped out, tears of frustration welling up. “I can barely grip it.” 

“Damn,” he muttered, thinking, searching. Then-”Lash it to my arm.”

The look on Kady’s face said she’d rather wear skirts for the rest of her life than do such a thing. Quentin was sure she was about to refuse. “Kady,” he pleaded. “Lash it to my arm.”

Kady looked right back at Quentin, rebellion all over her face. “Kady,” Julia commanded quietly. “Do as he says.”

For a moment Quentin thought she was still going to refuse, but then she looked down to the ground and nodded. Alice brought over some rope and they went to work securing it down the length of his arm.

* * *

On the track, Josh watched Alice and Kady work. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the official approaching to median to raise the flag for the last round. Quentin was not ready. If that flag dropped in the next thirty seconds, Quentin would be finished.

Well, Josh was always willing to have all eyes on him. And that was exactly what he wanted now.

Quickly, he ran up the steps to the royal box, climbing upon the railing that ran along the first row of the seats. He nimbly jumped across a column until he was perched right in front of Prince Edward.

“Good people! Good people!” he yelled loudly across the arena. “I missed my introduction!”

Josh was quite proud of the reputation he’d built for himself as a herald working in his short time with Quentin. In the last few tournaments, he had drawn more cheers than some of the participating knights. This last event of the season was no exception - at his sudden appearance, the crowd absolutely blew up in enthusiastic shouts and applause.

The flag official looked around confusingly, and then at Hoberman, arms spread wide, standing with his ass right in front of the heir to the throne. He then lowered his flag and waited. Josh smiled, and began the one introduction that he had been waiting all season to say.

“But please… please, I pray you.” Josh paced the railing as he spoke, relishing the feel of commanding thousands of people by the words from his lips. “Hear it now. For I would lay rest the grace in my tongue, and speak plain.”

Josh snuck a look at Prince Edward and his wife. Both had their eyes on him, drinking in every word. “Days like these… are far too rare to cheapen with heavy-handed words.” A quick glance at Quentin, and he could see he was almost ready to go.

“And so, I’m afraid, without any ado whatsoever-” At this, with an “Excuse me, my lord,” Josh stepped ON to the armrest of Prince Edward’s makeshift throne, “Here he is!” Josh thrust his hand at Quentin.

“One of your own! Born a stone’s throw from this very stadium… and here before you now. The son of Ted Coldwater!”

Josh pointed to Ted, sitting nary five feet away. Ted’s eyes closed, and Eliot gave a watery smile in Josh’s direction.

“Sir Quentin Coldwater!” Josh screamed his name, dragging it out as the crowd cheered their approval. Ted, Eliot and Margo applauded and screamed, tears streaming down Ted’s face. 

Josh could see that Quentin had his lance pointing skyward. He had never met a man so patently incompetent in some ways of life, but so damned inspiring in others. He prayed he would be able to continue to be amazed by him for many more years to come.

“Godspeed, Quentin,” he whispered, as he descended the stands.

* * *

Quentin looked around him, listening to the sound of hundreds of people chanting his name. He still felt so much pain, fear, apprehension and worry. But the pride and determination he felt outweighed it all.

“That’s your name,” Kady told him, still by his side. “Sir Quentin Coldwater. Your father heard that.” Kady stepped away from him, and Quentin stared at her as Saxon moved forward into the starting position.

Chatwin’s squires also readied his steed, as Chatwin glared at Quentin from across the arena. Chatwin was in his full black armor, the black fist from his lance raised high. Quentin was dressed in riding chaps, a linen shirt, no armor or visor, with blood dripping down his torso. His lance was tied to his arm, which he struggled to lift. Pain radiated throughout his entire body, and the sun beat down harshly. Sweat beaded down his face, his hair sticking to his head. Despite the picture he presented, he had never felt more ready for anything in his life.

The official lifted the flag. Chatwin flew down the arena. Quentin waited a beat, two, three - and then he spurred Saxon into movement.

The sounds of the arena faded away. His vision tunneled, seeing only Chatwin bounding towards him, lance aimed straight for him. He had no cradle to slide his lance into; it had now become an extension of himself. 

The gallop down the barrier of the jousting arena took only mere seconds, but it felt like hours to Quentin. In his mind's eye, he saw his father’s smile at realizing who Sir Ulrich was, Eliot’s cheeky grin asking to be chased, Julia’s kind eyes as she told him a story, Kady’s fierce curls bobbing as she waved a knife in his face, waving goodbye to his father on a dark dock and then, screaming “QUENTIN” so Chatwin would know exactly who was doing this to him - and then he thrust his arm forward and into Chatwin’s chest with a strength he never knew it was possible to attain.

Pain radiated again down his arm; Quentin thought for sure he would lose use of it by the time this day was over. That was the only pain he felt though, for as Saxon continued down the arena, Quentin was untouched. And he knew, as the crowd roared, that Chatwin was rolling head over heels to the ground. 

He had done it.

He had won.

Prince Edward yelled “YES!” as Chatwin tumbled to the dirt floor, grabbing his wife and wrapping her in a celebratory kiss. 

Eliot grabbed Ted, yelling, “He’s won! He’s won!” smiling broadly as tears streamed down his face. 

Julia, Kady, Josh and Alice ran across the arena to Quentin, ignoring Chatwin, who was unmoving on the ground. They jumped and yelled and cheered the entire way.

Quentin slowed Saxon to a halt as the crowd chanted his name, throwing banners and flowers to the arena floor. He turned Saxon and looked at Chatwin, still on his back in the dirt. “Welcome to the new world,” he said to himself. 

Eliot cheered and screamed, squeezing Ted’s hand probably way too hard for a man of his frailty. His emotions had gone through the wringer in the past twenty-four hours - Margo said his level of theatrics had reached new heights. But now, after watching Quentin joust a man very willing to kill him while wearing no armor, he knew he’d go through that and more for Quentin Coldwater. He had never really imagined finding his future in a dusty jousting arena, but here it was.

Ted Coldwater squeezed Eliot’s hand, so grateful he had made it possible for him to be there today. He looked upwards to the heavens and closed his eyes. When he had left Quentin at that dock twelve years ago, he knew it was very likely that would be the last time he ever saw his son. He would be eternally thankful that Quentin had not only come home to him, but he had found a way to change his stars.

Tick looked at Count Chatwin, struggling to get up as his varlets assisted. He then looked to Sir Quentin, whose squires were assisting him in getting off his horse. A small smile on his face, Tick smiled and applauded for Sir Quentin. Maybe that Josh Hoberman was taking apprentices?

Quentin quickly stripped the now-broken lance off his arm and wrapped Julia in a strong hug, lifting her off her feet. He felt no pain, he felt nothing but intense love and happiness for his friends… his family. Julia’s soft tears fell at his neck as she hugged and hugged him.

Kady grabbed on as well, enveloping the two of them. Over her shoulder, Quentin looked up and saw Eliot descending the staircase from the royal box.

He broke away from his friends and ran, ignoring his shoulder as he pushed himself up and over the joust barrier in the middle of the arena. Eliot was running and then they collided, arms encircling each other as Quentin kissed and kissed him in front of a thousand people. He could taste the salt from Eliot’s tears on his lips as Eliot’s hand settled at the back of his head, the other at his waist, pulling him in so close. 

Quentin reached one hand up to cradle his face, the other resting on Eliot’s lower back, laughing and kissing and touching. 

As much as Quentin talked about changing his stars, deep down he had never thought it was truly possible. But now, as he held Eliot close in the middle of the grandest arena in Fillory, he realized this was where he had always been destined to end up. He just had to believe in himself to get there.

* * *

Alice, Josh, Kady, and Julia all leaned on the middle barrier, watching Quentin and Eliot make out in front of Prince Edward and half the population of Fillory. Alice held Saxon’s reins in her hand, giving him a friendly pat. She glanced up at the royal box and quickly blew Margo a kiss. Margo snatched it out of the air, and then placed it... well, Alice’s face went red as Margo’s hand descended from sight.

Josh stood next to her, and Julia and Kady were next to him, Kady’s arm wrapped around Julia’s waist. They were all smiles, Julia sniffling a bit.

“I think I’m going to have to write some of this story down,” Josh said. 

“You mean the part about the prince and the knights?” Kady asked.

“No, all of it,” Josh replied, tilting his head as Quentin and Eliot continued. They were probably going to have to hose them down, from the direction their hands were moving. “All human activity lies within the artist's scope.”

He looked back at Kady, reconsidering. “Well, maybe not yours,” he amended. Kady promptly released Julia to put him in a headlock, laughing the entire time.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos on this story! I've never written a full fic before, and the support of this community is amazing. I hope to see you again soon, maybe with something a bit more original... or maybe not. :)

Eliot laid back against the blanket, relishing the cool breeze on his flushed face. He could hear birds moving in the branches above him, and gentle splashing on the nearby pond. The sky above was black, a clear night with thousands of stars blinking above them. A few feet overhead, several candles hovered, providing a warm glow. 

The remains of a meal was scattered across the area, a glass of spilled wine somewhere to Eliot’s left. Eliot’s shirt was unbuttoned and open. Nestled next to him was a shirtless Quentin, his head tucked under Eliot’s chin and one hand splayed across Eliot’s belly. Quentin’s pants were undone, while Eliot’s were pushed down around his ankles. That was about as far as they’d gotten in removing clothing before their eagerness overtook them.

It was so fucking perfect he could vomit.

“So I do agree, a dinner picnic is a great idea,” Quentin said, twirling his fingers through the soft hairs trailing up Eliot’s stomach, to his chest. “Very relaxing.”

Chuckling, Eliot trailed a hand up and down Quentin’s back, to the nape of his neck and back down again. “This is my favorite spot for a reason,” he said.

“Oh really?” Quentin asked, turning his head to face Eliot, his chin propped on his chest. “And what reason would that be?”

“Communing with nature always seems to make people want to get naked.” Eliot smirked as Quentin’s eyes narrowed. Before Quentin could say the thought Eliot knew was in his head, he continued, “I don’t know. It’s not often I can say I feel truly peaceful. Even when I was a kid, I would sneak out at night to come lay here and look at the stars. Being here alone, sometimes with Margo - I felt like I could really rest. I thought maybe you could use it before travel starts up.”

In only a few days, they would be traveling for Quentin’s first tournament of the season. He had been training hard for the past few months, ready to bring glory to Fillory by the tip of his lance. His travels this season would be quite different from the last - he’d have the full support as a knight of Fillory, meaning more than just two horses and one carriage. He’d also have his new squires alongside him, and most importantly, Eliot.

“Not sure how much rest we’re really getting,” Quention snarked, as his eyes ghosted over Eliot’s face. Eliot could never get enough of that - the pure love and adoration that shone through Quentin’s eyes when his gaze fell upon Eliot. 

“Well, I never said it was a perfect plan.” Eliot shifted a bit to pull his underwear back into place. He reclined back again, tucking Quentin’s head back into it’s place under his chin as he wrapped his arms around him, giving a contented sigh.

The past several months had been a whirlwind. The wedding had come together rather quickly, extravagant, but tasteful; the event of the year within Fillory. It was held at one of the large cathedrals, at Eliot’s parents' insistence. The story of how a peasant fought his way to knighthood was already a favorite tale within and outside the kingdom; Eliot knew Quentin would have quite the following on the tournament circuit.

Alice and Margo would be traveling with them, the two proving almost as inseparable as Eliot and Quentin. Eliot never imagined he’d see the day that Margo would be tamed, but it wasn’t that long ago he had thought the same of himself.

Julia and Kady had elected to stay behind in Fillory this season. Julia did have family near, and she and Kady were planning on starting their own soon. Eliot knew Quentin would miss them both dearly.

Josh had disappeared from their lives as suddenly as he had come into it. He stuck around long enough for the wedding, and then was gone again, muttering something about a man and a dog. Eliot was sure they hadn’t seen the last of him, though… particularly since Quentin refused to name another herald as of yet.

Eliot groaned in protest as Quentin sat up. “I’m not ready yet,” he protested, flinging a hand over his eyes in a completely non-dramatic fashion.

He could feel Quentin’s grin as he said, “Well, me neither. But we should get some real sleep. I have to be up early to show Todd a few more things with the horses.”

His face pulling into the same frown it always did when Quentin’s new squires name was mentioned, he muttered, “Well now I’m really not ready to go back.”

“He’s not so bad, you know,” Quentin told him, reaching out to stroke a few fingers along Eliot’s belly.

Eliot grinned at the tickling touch, reaching out to grab Quentin’s wrist. He flipped Quentin’s hand over and slotted their fingers together. “He’s terrible,” he said blandly, his tone a stark contrast to the light in his eyes. “Fine, I’ll pull my pants up.” He sat up and stretched his arms over his head, arching the kinks out of his back. Focusing back on Quentin, he saw a renewed lust in his eyes. “Unless…” he said, leaning forward hungrily.

Quentin met his kiss, reaching up to cradle one cheek in his hand. They kissed slowly, the urgency fading as Eliot realized he would not get his way tonight. Well, maybe just not right this second.

Eliot pulled away, looking into the warm brown eyes that had captured him so easily those many months ago. The ring on his left hand glittered in the candlelight, it’s mate on Quentin’s finger. “You know,” Eliot began, “You set out last year to change your stars.”

A blush started to rise on Quentin’s cheeks, as it always did when they spoke of such things. It was such a difference from his fierceness in the arena; it drove Eliot mad thinking about how this awkward, shy man could ravage a knight in the joust and Eliot in his bed.

“Did you ever realize how you changed mine as well?” Eliot asked him, his fingers closing around the wrist of Quentin’s hand that was still cradling his face. 

Quentin’s eyes shined in the candlelight as he stared at Eliot. Eliot held his gaze, wanting to brand Quentin with how thankful he was to have taken a walk in the square that day. “No,” Quentin whispered, barely audible.

“Well, you did. And I will love you for it for the rest of my life. Sir Quentin.”

Quentin leaned his forehead against Eliot's. "And I will love you for the rest of mine. Lord Eliot." Eliot slowly kissed him again, as the stars twinkled overhead.

**Author's Note:**

> Please find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rubickk7) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Rubick71).


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